THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY' 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


SUSY  S    OVERSTRAINED    NERVES    RELAXED,   AND    SHE     BURST    INTO 
WILD    LAUGHTER 


BIOGRAPHY 

\BOY 


BY 

JOSEPHINE   DASKAM   BACON 

AUTHOR  OK 
"THK  MEMOIRS  OF  A  KAI:Y" 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

ROSE     O'NEILL 


HARPER    &     BROTHERS 

NEW       YORK       AND       LONDON 
M  -  C  M  X 


BOOKS  BY 
JOSEPHINE    DASKAM    BACON 

TEN  TO  SEVENTEEN.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo  .  $1.50 
THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  BABY.  Ill'd.  Post  8vo  .  1.50 
THE  BIOORAPHY  OF  A  BOY.  Ill'd  Post  8vo  .  1.50 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  N.  Y. 


Copyright,  1910,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
Alt  rights  reserved. 


Published  January,  1910. 
•tied  in  the  United  States  oj  .-liner 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  WHICH  DEALS  WITH  A  MOVING  INCIDENT     .     .  i 

II.  WHICH  DEALS  WITH  THE  INTELLECTUAL  LIFE  .  31 

III.  WHICH  DEALS  WITH  THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATURE  66 

IV.  WTHICH  DEALS  WITH  A  TIMELY  PROBLEM       .     .  94 

V.  WHICH  DEALS  WITH  ONE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS     .  129 

VI.  WHICH  DEALS  WITH  COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA  164 

VII.  WHICH   DEALS   WITH   OUR  COMMON   NEIGHBORS 

AND  How  TO  KNOW  THEM        201 

VIII.  WHICH   DEALS  WITH   A   LITTLE   SCIENCE   AND   A 

GREAT  DEAL  OF   HEALTH      ...  235 

IX.  WHICH  DEALS  WITH  THE  CHANCES  AND  CHANGES 

OF  THIS  MORTAL  LIFE  280 


2042002 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


SUSY  S  OVERSTRAINED    NERVES    RELAXED,    AND   SHE 

BURST     INTO    WILD    LAUGHTER Frontispiece 

SUSY  ESTABLISHED  HERSELF  COMFORTABLY  ON  HER 

HUSBAND'S  KNEE Fating  p.      2 

SHE   LOOMED   BEFORE   THEM,    A    DEMI-GODDESS     .  34 
"  IT  KEEPS  THEIR  MINDS  BACK,  TOM,  AND  THAT'S 

BETTER   FOR  THEM" 42 

"DR.     BOSKOWITZ     WAS     WONDERFULLY     INTER 
ESTING"   ...  112 

MAKING   A  COLLAR  OF   KISSES 124 

HAMLET  AND  OPHELIA  SAFELY  PENNED  IN  THE 

GARDEN I9° 

HE    TOOK    MARTIN    TO    EVERY    CIRCUS    ....  22O 

"I'M     NOT     GOING     TO     SCHOOL" 238 

TOM     KISSED     HER     HASTILY     AND     DIVED     THROUGH 

THE  SLEET 242 

"  AUNT  EM  WAS  PLEASED  "  246 

"SHE'LL   SAY   SHE   HAD   HIM    FROM   THE    BOTTLE"  250 

"NOW,    MARTIN,     PLEASE     HOLD     YOUR     SHOULDERS 

MORE  EVEN"     

HER  HEAD  WAS  ON  TOM'S  SHOULDER  AND  MARTIN'S 

ON    HER    KNEE 3lS 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 


WHICH    DEALS    WITH    A    MOVING    INCIDENT 


USY   slipped   out   of   her   chair  with 
the    quick    girlish    ease    that    seven 
years  of    married  life  had    failed  to 
steal  from  her,   and   established  her 
self    comfortably   on    her    husband's 
knee,  scattering  legal  papers  with  a  fine  unconcern. 
"Tommy  dear,"    she    said   thoughtfully,   "I've 
been  considering  it  a  great  deal  lately,  and  I  be 
lieve  you're  right.     I  think  we'd  better." 

"Yes,  dear — up  to  the  eighteenth  of  May  of  that 
year,  inclusive"  he  murmured  mechanically,  one 
hand  rescuing  a  knowing-looking  packet  labelled 
Motion  to  Adjourn. 

"  It  will  be  so  much  better  for  the  children,  and, 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

then,  it  would  be  nice  to  have  more  bedrooms 
— down  at  the  beach  it's  so  stupid  not  to  be  able 
to  keep  but  two  people  over  Sunday,  and  they 
must  be  married— 

"Who  must  be  married?"  Mr.  Wilbour  inquired 
vaguely,  snatching  a  long  -  waisted,  tan  -  colored 
document  entitled  Brandergert  vs.  Terwilliger  from 
under  his  wife  and  endeavoring  vainly  to  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket. 

"Why,  anybody  that  we  have  in  the  blue 
room,"  Susy  explained  impatiently. 

Her  husband  regarded  her  seriously,  his  at 
tention  now  fully,  if  somewhat  tardily,  aroused. 

"That  seems  reasonable,"  he  admitted.  "I  am 
not  unduly  priggish,  I  hope,  but  one  has  to  draw 
the  line  somewhere,  and  really,  when  you  think 
of  it,  we  have — er— comparatively  few  friends 
who  fail  to  qualify  as  far  as  that  simple  convention 
ality  goes — 

Susy  bounced  severely  upon  his  knee. 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Tommy?"  she 
interrupted.  "All  I  am  saying  is  that  whoever 
comes  must  be  married,  and  it's  a  great  nuisance! 
I  suppose  you  agree  to  that,  don't  you?" 

Tom  stared  at  her. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Susan  Wilbour,"  he  ex 
claimed  dramatically,  "what  has  happened? 
Are  you  going  to  be  like  people  in  Ibsen?  Are 


SL'SY    ESTABLISHED    HERSELF    COMFORTABLY    ON     HER    HUSBAND  S 

KNEE 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

you  Advanced?  You're  like  that  Englishwoman 
that  writes  those  novels  and  has  a  salon!  Is 
Marriage  a  Nuisance?  My  dear  Toots!  and  to 
think  that  seven  years  ago  .  .  .  ' 

"Don't  be  silly,  Tommy,"  she  cut  him  short 
severely;  "of  course,  you  know  very  well  I  mean 
nothing  of  the  kind.  And  I  think  a  salon  is 
ridiculous.  Mrs.  Strenway  started  to  have  one 
once,  and  there  was  only  water-ices  and  Mr. 
Strenway  played  bridge  all  the  time.  You 
needn't  laugh.  Everybody  was  disgusted.  I  am 
not  discussing  marriage  at  all,  but  only  saying 
that  it's  a  pity  that  nobody  but  people  who  are 
married  ...  I  mean,  that  it  is  too  bad  that  people 
have  to  be  married  in  order  .  .  .  Oh,  Tom,  how 
horrid  you  are!  I  don't  think  you're  a  bit  kind, 
and  I  sha'n't  say  another  word  about  it,  and  you'll 
be  sorry,  too,  for  it  was  all  on  your  account!" 

She  endeavored  to  leave  her  seat  with  dignity, 
but  this  is  a  difficult  feat  to  accomplish  when  the 
seat  happens  to  be  one's  husband,  unless  the  hus 
band  in  question  is  disposed  to  assist  one's  descent. 
Tom  was  not,  and  after  a  few  helpless  jerks  Susy 
subsided  into  a  stern  martyrdom  which  yielded 
before  long  to  his  irresistible  chuckling. 

"Never  mind,  Toots,"  he  managed  to  get  out 
at  last.  "I  believe  in  you.  Appearances  are 
against  you,  but  you  mean  well  at  bottom,  and 

5 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

though  you  seem  immoral  I  am  sure  your  prin 
ciples  are  sound.     What  you  are  trying  to  say— 

"I  could  say  it  well  enough,  Tom,  if  only  you'd 
let  me  alone  for  a  momsnt !  What  I  mean  is  that 
it  is  horrid  to  have  only  one  guest-room  in  the 
summer." 

"I  know  it,"  he  admitted  sympathetically,  but 
with  one  eye  on  Brandergert  vs.  Terwilliger. 

"And  if  you  knew  the  horrid  things  Martin 
hears  in  the  park— he  will  chase  after  the  rough 
boys.  And  Thomas  can't  move  a  step  without 
a  nurse.  .  .  .  Tom,  I  simply  won't  talk  to  you  if  you 
won't  pay  some  attention  to  what  we're  talking 
about!" 

"But  I  am — I  do,"  he  cried  penitently,  for 
Susy  was  evidently  hurt  in  earnest  now,  "really, 
Toots!  We  were  talking  about  the — the  blue 
room  and  the  park  and — and  nurses!" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Wilbour  briefly,  sweeping 
the  documents  to  the  floor  and  grasping  the  lapels 
of  her  husband's  coat,  looking  him  in  the  eye, 
meantime,  with  that  firm,  intentional  kindness 
which  is  supposed  to  be  so  efficient  in  subduing  the 
inhabitants  of  the  jungle. 

"We're  not  talking  about  that  at  all,  Tom 
Wilbour!" 

"Then  what  are  we  talking  about?"  said  Mr. 
Wilbour  resignedly. 

6 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"We're  talking  about  moving  into  the  country," 
and  Susy  settled  herself  comfortably  against  his 
shoulder. 

"Oh-h-h!"  Tom  drew  a  long  whistling  breath 
and  dismissed  Brandergcrt  vs.Terwilliger  definitely. 

"Really,  Toots?     Would  you  like  it?" 

"I  told  you  you'd  be  sorry,"  she  added  content 
edly,  "and  it  doesn't  cost  so  very  much  to  put  in 
a  new  bath-room  if  you  have  it  directly  over  the 
old  one,  does  it?" 

Tom  gasped,  but  made  a  noble  effort. 

' '  I  believe  not, ' '  he  said  gravely.  ' '  Had  you  any 
particular  bath-room  in  mind?" 

Susy  looked  at  him  with  real  reproach  and  shook 
the  lapels  impatiently. 

"Why,  Tom  Wilbour,"  she  cried,  "as  if  you 
hadn't  picked  it  out  yourself!  Who  was  it  ad 
mired  that  vine  over  the  side  porch?  Who  was 
it  that  said  we  could  bottle  the  spring  water  and 
sell  it?  Who  told  Aunt  Emma  that  that  newel 
post  was  really  Colonial?" 

Tom  drew  a  long  breath  and  appeared  to  in 
voke  the  shades  of  a  dim  and  distant  past,  while 
his  wife  shook  him  gently  at  intervals  as  if  to  settle 
his  faculties. 

"Oh!"  he  said  at  last,  "do  you  mean  that  old 
white  house  on  the  Albany  Post  Road  last 
summer?" 

7 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

' '  You  didn't  talk  about  it  like  that,  then."  And 
the  dignified  forbearance  in  his  wife's  tone  would 
have  deceived  any  one  but  her  husband. 

Mr.  Wilbour,  startled  by  a  sudden  and  un 
usually  peremptory  ring  at  the  door-bell,  jumped 
slightly  and  endeavored  to  turn  the  movement 
into  one  of  convulsive  admiration  for  the  old 
white  house,  which  aroused  but  faint  memories 
after  the  lapse  of  several  busy  months. 

"Ah — that  was  a  fine  old  place!"  he  observed 
with  suspiciously  sudden  enthusiasm.  "If  you're 
really  interested  in  the  country,  dear,  we  might  go 
out  and  look  about  a  bit  this  spring,  when  I  can 
get  a  little  of  this  work  off— 

"This  spring,  Tom!"  It  was  clear  that  he  had 
struck  the  wrong  note.  "The  spring  is  the  time 
to  move,  silly!  you  look  about  before  that.  Our 
lease  expires  in  April,  you  know,  and  we  can't  wait 
till  then,  can  we?  We  must  move  then." 

"Oh!"  Tom  shuddered,  not  entirely  theatri 
cally,  and  gazed  beseechingly  at  his  wife.  "Don't 
say  that  awful  word  to  me,  Toots  dear,  even  in 
jest,"  he  begged.  ' '  Aside  from  the  fact  that  we  can 
hardly  go  into  this  without  a  little  more  serious 
consideration,  I  think  the  mere  thought  of  moving 
would  nail  me  to  this  spot  forever,  even  if  we  knew 
where  we  were  going  to  move  to!  Do  you  re 
member  the  awful  occasion  when  we  moved  from 


THE    BIOGRAPNY    OF   A    BOY 

Forty-seventh  Street?  You  may  not  recall  the 
fact  tnat  I  had  to  help  collect  Thomas's  crib  and 
two  dozen  collars  and  a  drawer  full  of  evening 
shirts  from  the  middle  of  Sixth  Avenue  and 
blocked  the  traffic  for  half  an  hour  boosting  that 
infernal  chiffonier  into  the  van,  with  everybody 
grinning  around  me  and  the  policemen  a  disgrace 
to  the  Force!  Move,  indeed!  When  I  think — 

Here  the  door -bell  rang  sharply  again,  and 
Susy  looked  apprehensively  toward  the  win 
dow. 

"But  you  wouldn't  have  had  to  think  of  it, 
Tom,  if  you  hadn't  insisted  in  following  them  in 
a  cab,  you  know,"  she  interrupted  soothingly; 
"and  anyway,  we  wouldn't  employ  them  again. 
They  were  really  second-class  people"-— Tom 
snorted  violently — "and  this  time  we'd  do  it  very 
differently." 

"This  time!"  he  repeated  vaguely. 

"You  see,"  Susy  went  on,  glancing  expectantly 
toward  the  library  door  from  time  to  time,  and 
producing,  as  if  by  some  feat  of  legerdemain,  a 
small  pea-green  pamphlet  from  nowhere  in  par 
ticular,  "all  these  people  have  given  their  full 
names  and  addresses,  and  lots  of  them  are  in  New 
York,  so  we  could  call  them  up  on  the  telephone 
any  time  and  see — 

"See  what?"  her  husband  inquired  suspiciously, 
9 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

viewing  the  closely  printed  pamphlet  coldly. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Susy?" 

"See  whether  Slide  &  Bumpus  do  all  they  say 
they  do,"  Mrs.  Wilbour  replied  calmly. 

"Who  in  time  are  Slide  &  Bumpus?"  he  de 
manded,  snatching  the  booklet  mechanically  from 
her  outstretched  hand. 

"Why  Wear  Yourself  Out,  Moving?"  the  title- 
page  urged  cordially.  ' '  Let  us  Attend  to  it  while 
You  are  at  the  Matinee!  Then  Return  to  your 
New  Home!  We  Absolutely  Guarantee  that  you 
will  find  Everything  In  Perfect  Order  there!" 

Tom  grinned  sardonically. 

' '  I  suppose  you  remember  the  evening  we  found 
Martin's  electric  railroad  spiked  down  in  perfect 
order  to  the  library  floor  and  my  bed  in  perfect 
order  in  the  laundry,  don't  you?"  he  inquired. 

Susy  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"But  these  people  are  utterly  different,  Tom!" 

"I  hope  so,  I  hope  so,  my  dear.  Not  that  I 
have  the  slightest  interest  in  Messrs.  Slide  &  Bump 
us,  but  I  should  hate  to  think  that  any  firm 
in  this  universe  remotely  resembled  the  brutal 
pirates  that  littered  Sixth  Avenue  with  my  un 
derwear!" 

"Here's  a  good  one,"  Susy  remarked  abruptly, 
"this  one  from  Miss  Julia  Dart  Olmstead — 'the 
well  known  woman  writer,'  "  she  quoted  hastily 

10 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

from  the  booklet,  as  Miss  Olmstead's  name  failed 
to  evoke  any  sign  of  recognition  from  her  hus 
band. 

"/  should  feel  myself  lacking  in  common  grati 
tude  were  I  to  omit  this  utterly  unsolicited  tes 
timonial  to  Messrs.  Slide  &  Bumpus"  Susy 
announced  eagerly.  "/  have  moved  nine  times 
in  the  course  of  a  perhaps  unusually  varied  life, 
and  to  state  that  destruction  has  followed  in  the  wake 
of  eight  of  these  upheavals  is  to  put  the  case  mildly. 
But  since  Mr.  Slide's  personal  and  gentlemanly 
ministrations  t?  my  household  gods,  I  can  truly 
say  that  I  am  quite  willing  to  move  nine  times  more — 
if  he  will  attend  to  it !  Beyond  the  collecting  of  my 
personal  baggage  (clothes,  manuscripts,  etc.]  I  had 
absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the  transfer  of  the 
entire  contents  of  my  apartment  from  Fifteenth 
Street  to  One  Hundred  and  Forty-first,  and  not  so 
much  as  a  drop  of  ink  was  spilled  or  mislaid. 
Indeed,  an  old  and  valued  fountain-pen,  which  I 
had  carelessly  left  in  the  sideboard,  was  the  first 
sight  that  greeted  my  astonished  eyes,  in  its  old  place 
on  my  pen- rack  in  the  opened  desk!  Mr.  Slide's 
work  was  a  revelation  to  me.  His  charges  were 
little  more  than  I  have  been  accustomed  to  pay  for 
work  of  a  vastly  different  character,  and  I  cordially 
recommend  his  services  to  any  one  who,  like  myself, 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

finds  life  all  too  short  for  the  nervous  strain  of  at 
tending  personally  to  his  Lares  and  Penates. 

"There!"  Susy  finished  triumphantly,  "you  can 
see  what  she  thinks  of  them!" 

"Yes,  and  I  can  see  what  I  think  of  her!"  Mr. 
Wilbour  replied  promptly.  "I  think  she  needs  a 
keeper — not  a  mover.  I'll  bet  they're  sorry  up  at 
One  Hundred  and  Forty-first  vStreet  now !  '  Not  a 
drop  of  ink  mislaid,'  forsooth!  She  must  be  a 
bird.  Let's  see  the  book,  anyhow." 

Sweetly  unsuspicious  of  the  cause  of  his  interest, 
Susy  handed  her  husband  the  pea-green  pamphlet 
and  listened  with  earnest  attention  to  his  spirited 
rendering  of  the  almost  fulsome  admiration  of  one 
Jos.  P.  Weeks  for  the  invaluable  Mr.  Slide. 

"//  any  one  had  told  me"  began  Mr.  Weeks, 
with  engaging  candor,  "that  Slide  &  Bumpus 
could  do  what  they  do  do,  I  should  say  they  lied. 
When  my  wife  wanted  to  move  into  the  city  I  put 
my  foot  down  hard,  because  I  well  remembered  what 
an  awful  time  we  had  in  moving  down  from  Troy. 
But  you  know  what  a  woman  is,  and  of  course  I  had 
to  give  in  or  be  miserable.  But  mind  you,  I  said, 
whatever  breaks,  breaks,  and  we  either  go  without 
or  eat  from  the  pieces.  'There  won't  be  anything 
broken  that's  not  replaced  on  a  guarantee,'  she  said, 

12 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

and  so  it  was,  for  in  moving  from  Morristoivn  to 
New  York  not  so  much  as  a  lamp-chimney  cracked! 
I  was  at  the  office  all  day,  and  my  wife  did  nothing 
but  pack  the  trunks  for  children  and  self.  She 
assured  me  she  had  often  had  more  trouble  in  starting 
for  the  seashore.  The  only  accident  was  the  death 
of  my  daughter  Ethel's  pet  canary-bird,  but  as  he 
was  eight  years  old  we  feel  that  it  was  probably  due 
to  shock  and  could  not  fairly  be  laid  to  their  door. 
But  even  for  this  Slide  &  Bumpus  immediately  of 
fered  a  new  canary,  which  was,  of  course,  not  accepted. 
I  advise  every  one  who  thinks  of  moving  to  consult 
Mr.  Slide,  and  promise  them  they  will  not  regret  it. 
"(Signed)  Jos.  P.  WEEKS." 

Long  before  the  conclusion  of  Mr.  Weeks's  artless 
discourse  Susy  realized  that  Tom's  appreciation  of 
the  booklet  was  slightly  different  in  character 
from  her  own,  and  she  made  futile  endeavors  to 
snatch  it  from  him ;  but  he  held  it  out  of  her  reach 
easily,  and  read  with  unnecessary  expression  dis 
connected  eulogies  upon  the  extraordinarily  gifted 
firm  in  question,  while  she  hopped  vainly  after 
him,  divided  between  wrath  and  laughter. 

"Well,  if  you  think  these  aren't  respectable 
people,"  he  vouchsafed  at  last,  "here's  Mrs. 
Brander  Beekman — I  hope  she's  good  enough  for 
you!  Here's  what  she  says: 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"/  cheerfully  bear  witness  to  Messrs.  Slide  & 
Bumpus's  competent  and  satisfactory  methods.  In 
moving  my  establishment  from  Washington  Square 
to  East  Sixty-eighth  Street  (of  which  they  assumed 
entire  supervision)  no  loss  whatever  occurred,  and 
only  one  breakage — the  stem  of  a  hock-glass  in 
Bohemian  ware.  As  replacing  this  was  out  of  the 
question,  the  set  being  specially  imported,  Mr. 
Slide  had  the  glass  repaired  so  expertly  that  it  is, 
if  anything,  stronger  and  more  artistic  than  the 
remainder  of  the  set.  Mr.  Slide  is  quite  at  liberty 
to  use  my  name  as  a  reference. 

(Signed) 

"FRANCES   B.  BRANDER   BEEKMAN. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  said  Mr.  Wilbour  thought 
fully,  "what  do  you  think  of  that,  now?  See 
here,  Toots,"  casually  raising  the  book  an  inch 
beyond  her  grasp,  "do  you  suppose  if  we  should 
ever  move  and  Slide  &  Bumpus  took  charge  of  it, 
they'd  cover  these  leather  chairs  on  the  way  to 
the  'new  home'?  Maybe  they'd  re-line  my  hat- 
box  'while  you  were  at  the  matinee!'  Didn't 
you  say  the  piano  needed— 

"Hush,  Tom,  I  think  he's  coming  now!"  Susy 
cried  nervously. 

"Coming!     Who's   coming?"   Tom   demanded. 

"Why,  Mr.  Slide,  of  course — now,  do  be  careful, 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

Tom,  and  don't  hurt  his  feelings,  please.  He's 
really  quite  gentlemanly." 

The  green  booklet  dropped  from  her  husband's 
hand;  his  face  fell. 

"Susan  Wilbour,  will  you  tell  me  why  in 
Heaven's  name  a  moving  man  should  come  here, 
when  we  have  no  place  to  move  to  and  no  idea  of 
moving,  really  ?  What  possessed  you — 

"Sh,  sh,  Tom!  He's  up-stairs  now.  I  was 
trying  to  tell  you — Aunt  Emma  and  I  went  out 
there  last  week  and  got  the  refusal  of  that  place 
with  the  vine — it  does  no  harm  to  just  get  the 
refusal,  Tommy,  dear,  and  it's  a  great  bargain — it's 
bound  to  be  snapped  up!  And  Mr.  Slide  said  he'd 
look  in,  in  case  you  wanted  him  to  make  the 
estimate,  that's  all.  It  doesn't  bind  you  to  any 
thing —  Oh,  Tom,  don't  look  so  stupid!  Please! 
There — there  he  is! — Come  in!" 

Susy  arranged  her  features  pleasantly,  but  Tom 
was  utterly  unable  to  do  this  and  stared  with  a 
mixture  of  surprise  and  horror  at  Mr.  Slide,  a 
dapper  little  man  with  reddish  hair  and  a  meek 
expression,  who  cast  such  an  appraising  glance 
over  the  room,  even  in  the  act  of  entering  it,  that 
the  master  of  the  house  gripped  the  arms  of  his 
chair  instinctively,  as  if  in  fear  of  its  slipping  into 
a  van  from  under  him! 

But  no  one  even  slightly  acquainted  with  Mr. 
15 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

Thomas  Wilbour  would  have  expected  him  to 
remain  for  long  quiescent  in  such  circumstances, 
and  Susy,  in  the  midst  of  a  perfunctory  discussion 
of  the  weather,  saw  with  despair  that  her  husband 
was  about  to  revenge  himself  for  her  sudden  dis 
closures  by  an  exhibition  of  what  was  known  in  the 
family  as  his  "ridiculous  behavior." 

"And  when  have  you  decided  to  move  us,  Mr. 
Slide?"  he  inquired  suavely.  "I  don't  wish  to 
seem  intrusive,  but  it  will  take  a  little  time  for 
those  'clothes,  manuscripts,  etc.'  that  even  Miss — 
Miss — -ah,  yes,  Miss  Julia  Dart  Olmstead,  the  well- 
known  woman  writer,  found  herself  obliged  to 
attend  to." 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT    A    BOY 

"Tom!"  Susy  murmured  beseechingly,  but  he 
only  smiled  politely  and  continued. 

"There  was  Jos.  P.  Weeks,  too — you  know,  Mr. 
Slide,  how  his  wife  packed  the  trunks  for  children 
and  self!  Don't  tell  me  we're  leaving  this  after 
noon!" 

Mr.  Slide  chuckled  nervously  and  glanced  at 
Susy. 

"Hardly,  Mr.  Wilbour,  hardly,"  he  said  sooth 
ingly,  "we  require  forty-eight  hours'  notice,  you 
know.  You'll  be  warned,  sir,  you'll  be  warned!" 

' '  Ah !"  Tom  affected  an  airy  relief.  ' '  And  have 
you  decided  on  the  'new  home,'  Mr.  Slide?  I 
hadn't  known  that  we  were  moving  till  a  few 
moments  ago,  and — " 

"Please,  Tom!"  Susy  implored,  her  eyes  fast 
ened  distractedly  on  their  visitor.  But  her  fears 
were  baseless.  Mr.  Slide  only  wagged  his  head 
wisely  and  indicated  his  hostess  with  an  almost 
courtly  wave  of  the  hand. 

' '  Ask  the  madam,  Mr.  Wilbour,  ask  the  madam !" 
he  cried  chirpily,  "that's  my  advice,  right  along! 
No  use  making  any  plans  without  the  madam,  I 
tell  all  the  gentlemen.  Just  leave  it  to  her,  sir. 
As  I've  often  remarked  to  Mr.  Bumpus,  when  it 
comes  to  moving,  the  sexes  is  reversed,  you  might 
say,  and  we  always  look  to  the  lady!" 

"Like  Jos.  P.  Weeks,"  Tom  suggested  thought- 
17 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 


fully,  "he  seems  to  have  come  to  that  conclusion, 
too." 

"I  see  you're  familiar  with  our  booklet,"  Mr. 
Slide  ended  cordially.  "We  think  that's  a  pretty 
interesting  lot  o'  testimonials,  Mr.  Wilbour — and  I 
hope  we  may  have  the  privilege  of  addin'  yours  to 
it,"  he  concluded  neatly. 

At  this  climax  to  the  conversation  Tom  threw 
up  his  hands  and  tacitly  relinquished  all  further 
satire.  Indeed,  when  upon  repairing  to  the 
nursery  at  the  top  of  the  house  he  found  his  two- 
year-old  son  and  namesake  busily  engaged  in 
packing  six  picture-blocks,  a  ball  of  twine,  and  a 
badly  worn  woolly  lamb  on  three  wheels  into  his 
golf-bag,  and  rescued  from  Martin,  his  first-born, 
two  razors,  four  match-boxes,  and  a  miraculously 

1 8 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

intact  ink-bottle,  which  the  misguided  youth  was 
fitting  cleverly  into  Susy's  dressing-case  (on  the 
ground  that  he  was  an  expert  mover  and  was 
preserving  these  forbidden  necessities  from  the 
baby),  Tom  resigned  himself  to  what  appeared 
an  inevitable  exodus. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  whole  affair  proved  far 
more  practical  than  its  whimsical  introduction  had 
warranted.  The  vine-covered  house,  which  he  had 
honestly  admired,  was  in  perfect  repair,  fresh,  and 
habitable;  its  price,  at  no  time  excessive,  assumed 
the  character  of  a  really  good  investment  when  the 
owner  declared  himself  ready  to  stand  by  his 
original  offer  to  Susy,  in  spite  of  the  railroad's 
decision,  published  two  days  later,  to  build  a  new 
and  attractive  station  within  a  mile  of  the  prop 
erty;  a  neighbor  on  the  point  of  moving  to  Cali 
fornia  offered  a  "hired  man  "  horses,  carriages, 
garden  tools,  and  a  spotty  red  cow  with  her 
daughter,  at  a  surprisingly  low  figure;  the  road 
commission  promised  a  macadamized  countryside 
in  the  course  of  the  year;  and  altogether  the  proj 
ect,  though  apparently  an  unreasonably  casual 
one,  was  far  from  the  mere  hasty  impulse  it  ap 
peared,  and  Tom  admitted  generously  that,  like 
many  others  of  Susy's  sudden  manoeuvres,  it  was 
likely  to  be  a  great  success  when  once  he  had 
caught  his  breath. 

19 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

On  a  mild  promising  morning  in  late  March 
they  journeyed  thither  for  a  final  survey,  six- 
year-old  Martin  hanging  ecstatically  to  his  father's 
hand,  chanting  to  all  who  crossed  his  path  the 
golden  glory  of  fishing,  skating,  tree-climbing,  and 
pony-riding  that  was  to  irradiate  his  future  years ; 
while  Susy  murmured  a  steady  undertone  of  box- 
hedges,  table-butter  churned  in  the  pantry,  lattice 
work  in  the  windows,  and  brick  paths  to  the 
inevitable  pergola  that  closed  the  vista  of  her 
dreams. 

They  spent  a  happy  day,  pacing  off  the  garden 
with  the  new  gardener,  inspecting  the  neighbor's 
cow,  testing  the  low-hung  phaeton,  which  supplied 
a  delightfully  providential  tiny  folding-seat  for 
Martin,  and  allotting  for  the  last  time  the  pleasant, 
generous  rooms ;  and  when  Tom  saw  the  neat  plans 
for  these  last,  with  the  disposition  of  the  larger 
pieces  of  furniture  carefully  indicated,  the  very 
rugs  labelled,  and  listed  directions  for  the  unpack 
ed  china,  and  heard  from  Susy  of  her  day-long 
consultation  on  the  spot  with  Mr.  Slide,  he  formally 
apologized  for  his  unwarrantable  derision  of  that 
artist  in  details  and  admitted  that  the  terrors  of 
moving  were  banished  forever,  together  with  the 
tallow-candle  and  the  stage-coach.  With  charac 
teristic  ardor  he  even  meditated  a  testimonial 
along  these  lines  to  the  firm,  announcing  his  am- 

20 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

bition  to  outdo  Miss  Julia  Dart  Olmstead,  that 
well-known  woman  writer,  in  the  matter  of  con 
vincing  detail,  and  at  least  vie  with  the  friendly 
Jos.  P.  Weeks  in  sturdy  enthusiasm.  He  heartily 
agreed  with  Susy's  quotation  to  the  effect  that 
she  would  be  really  more  in  the  way  than  other 
wise  on  the  occasion  of  the  settling  (the  ladies,  Mr. 
Slide  volunteered,  seemed  to  upset  the  moving- 
men,  somehow),  and  though  he  grinned  mock 
ingly  at  her  almost  superstitious  determination  to 
attend  the  matinee,  even  as  the  pea-green  pam 
phlet  had  urged,  he  could  not  produce  any  urgent 
argument  to  the  contrary,  and  deposited  Bell, 
the  nurse,  with  her  youngest  charge,  in  an  early 
afternoon  train,  received  her  assurances  that  the 
last  van-load  had  left  in  good  order,  and  that  the 
cook  and  housemaid  were  even  now  ready  to  begin 
their  accustomed  tasks  in  their  new  surroundings, 
and  went  back  to  his  office  serenely,  only  regretting 
that  an  unusually  pressing  day's  work  forbade  his 
accompanying  Susy  and  Martin  to  the  afternoon 
performance  of  Buffalo  Bill — one  of  the  saint's 
days  in  his  son's  calendar. 

Lost  in  work,  he  woke  with  a  start  to  the  realiza 
tion  that  he  had  but  fifteen  minutes  in  which  to 
catch  the  train,  and  his  muttered  exclamations  as 
he  dashed  for  the  intermediate  conveyances  were 
productive  of  much  simple  amusement  to  those 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

unfortunate  city  dwellers  in  his  way,  who  breathed 
the  unwholesome  air  of  their  crowded  streets  with 
some  leisure,  at  least — or  so  it  appeared  to  his 
perturbed  mind.  Swinging  himself  onto  the  last 
car,  as  the  train  pulled  out,  he  just  escaped  the 
fine,  dense  drizzle  that  quickly  enveloped  the 
landscape;  before  he  had  found  Susy  in  the  long 
crowded  train  a  heavy  rain  was  falling  from  a 
prematurely  darkened  sky. 

But  no  journey  could  seem  dismal  to  Martin, 
whose  soul  was  steeped  in  the  gorgeous  pageants 
of  the  afternoon,  and  he  prattled  ceaselessly  of 
Indians  and  scouts,  of  trick  mules  and  wigwams, 
of  cannon  and  rough-riding,  while  even  the  delay 
of  half  an  hour,  while  the  wreckers  cleared  a  de 
railed  freight-train  from  their  course,  failed  to 
exhaust  his  descriptive  zeal.  For  years  after 
ward  Tom  connected  all  such  delays  and  rainy 
home-comings  with  a  confused  sense  of  half-re 
membered  Cossacks,  standing  on  their  bare 
backed  steeds,  yelling  terribly,  of  deafening  shots 
and  scrimmages,  of  painted  red  men,  and  finally 
of  some  great  absurd  calamity  connected  with  all 
this — so  deeply  was  this  journey  impressed  upon 
his  mind,  so  undreamed  of  was  its  ending. 

The  first  of  the  livery-men  drawn  up  in  a  strag 
gling  row  by  the  little  country  station  recognized 
them  promptly,  to  their  comfort,  and  enclosed 

22 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

them  quickly  in  his  steaming,  curtained  car 
riage. 

"I  just  come  back  from  your  new  place,  Mr. 
Wilbour — been  helpin'  the  movers!"  he  called 
cheerily,  as  he  pushed  in  the  dripping  suit-cases 
and  canvas  hold-alls.  "You  got  a  good  bargain 
when  you  bought  that  place!" 

A  genuine  London  fog  received  them :  the  feeble 
light  from  the  lantern  attached  to  the  back  wheel 
barely  cut  across  it ;  they  might  have  been  driving 
through  China.  The  road  seemed  tiresomely  long, 
with  none  of  the  familiar  daytime  landmarks, 
and  Susy,  more  exhausted  from  the  strenuous 
afternoon  than  she  cared  to  admit,  grew  momently 
despondent,  and  fearful  that  some  accident  had 
delayed  or  deterred  even  the  impeccable  Slide  & 
Bumpus.  Perhaps  Bell  had  made  a  mistake  .  .  . 
perhaps  the  kitchen  things  .  .  .  suppose  there  was 
no  cereal  for  Thomas  ? 

"Or  for  me!"  Martin  suggested,  with  the  sus 
picion  of  a  whine.  "I  haven't  had  any  cereal  since 
the  last  day  before  this  one!  I'm  afraid  I'll  be 
sick  if  I  don't  have  some  pretty  soon — I  think  I 
feel  a  little  sick,  now — 

"There,  there,  Martin,  that  will  do.  Here  we 
are!  All  lighted  and  comfy,  Toots — there's  Bell!" 

A  path  of  light  cut  through  the  mist,  and  the 
travellers  scudded  to  shelter.  The  open  door 

23 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

showed  a  hospitable  hall,  a  bright  fire  that 
flickered  on  all  the  familiar  mahogany,  a  satisfy 
ing  gleam  of  linen  and  silver  in  the  dining-room. 
Thomas  was  reported  fast  asleep,  unbelievably 
full  of  cereal,  and  every  picture,  every  tea -cup 
tallied  perfectly  with  the  inventory,  in  Bell's 
voluble  recital. 

"Mr.  Slide  told  me  to  tell  you  how  sorry  he  was, 
ma'am,  not  to  be  able  to  come  himself,  but  Mr. 
Bumpus  knew  all  about  it,  he  said,  and  was  every 
bit  as  good.  There's  a  handle  off  the  old  secretary, 
but  he'll  attend  to  it.  There's  only  eleven  salad- 
plates,  but  I  guess  there  never  was  no  more,  Mrs. 
Wilbour.  I—" 

"Oh,  dear,  never  mind,  Bell!  I'm  so  tired!" 
sighed  Susy.  "Take  Martin  to  bed.  Tom,  dear, 
did  you  think  the  furniture  would  make  such  a 
difference?  It  seems  so  crowded.  The  sideboard 
looks  simply  enormous.  I  suppose  it  will  seem 
nicer  to-morrow  .  .  .  ' 

"They've  left  a  lot  of  the  old  stuff — that's 
what's  the  matter,"  said  Tom  critically.  "You 
wouldn't  think  the  few  old  sticks  that  man  had 
would  make  such  a  difference.  I  told  him  to  pitch 
it  all  into  the  barn— 

"So  he  did,  Mr.  Wilbour,"  explained  Bell,  who, 
well  aware  of  her  present  importance,  was  de 
laying  Martin's  retirement  from  the  family  circle, 

24 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

"He  was  real  cross  about  it — he  said  you'd  ought 
to  have  said  how  much  there  was — he  was  awful 
rough  with  it." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Tom  decidedly,  "Slide  saw  it 
all.  I  don't  care  what  they  did  with  it,  anyhow. 
Isn't  there  any  dinner  for  us?" 

"That's  another  thing,  Mrs.  Wilbour,"  and  Bell 
moved  confidentially  nearer.  "Mary's  very  upset 
about  the  range.  You  know  you  said  it  was 
almost  new,  and  she  counted  a  good  deal  on  that, 
but  you  didn't  say  how  small  it  was.  There  isn't 
any  room — 

"There  won't  be  any  room  for  Mary  if  I  hear 
any  more  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Wilbour  firmly. 
"Tell  her  we're  here,  Bell.  .  .  .  Dear  me,  Susy,  did 
you  intend  that  serving- table  to  stand  out  here?" 

"No;  but  I  can't  see  \vhere  it  could  go  in  the 
dining-room,  I  must  say,"  and  Susy  studied  the 
room  discontentedly.  "And  the  living-room  has 
too  much  in  it,  too — it  seems  so  small." 

"We're  tired,"  said  her  husband  sensibly— 
"tired  and  hungry.  It  '11  be  different  to-morrow. 
Are  the  bedrooms  all  right,  Bell?" 

"Yes,  sir,  except  that  that  old  Mr.  Bumpus 
would  put  your  bed  and  Mrs.  Wilbour's  into  that 
big  room,  Mr.  Wilbour.  It  was  no  use  to  argue 
with  him.  He  said  if  any  two  beds  \vas  to  be  in 
one  room  it  must  be  them  two,  the  room  was  so 

25 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

dreadful  big.  I  thought  'twas  meant  for  the 
nursery,  from  the  pictures  on  the  wall-paper,  but 
he  said  'twas  a  big  double  room,  and  there  was  no 
sense  in  putting  one  bed  in  it  and  then  have  two 
in  a  smaller  room." 

"The  silly  old  thing!"  Susy  eried  pettishly, 
dropping  into  a  seat  at  the  table,  and  dragging  the 
plan  of  the  furniture  from  her  hand-bag.  "Here's 
the  exact  duplicate  of  his  copy;  there,  Tom,  read 
it!  'Mrs.  Wilbour's  room,  southwest  corner;  old- 
rose  paper;  three-quarter  brass  bed  with  round 
columns;  between  windows.  Mr.  Wilbour's  room, 
connecting;  three-quarter  brass  bed  with  square 
columns,  facing  Franklin  stove.'  Could  anything 
be  plainer  ?  How  could  he  directly  disobey  that  ?" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Bell  virtuously.  "He  showed 
Mary  that  paper — I  was  undressing  Thomas  at 
the  time — and  explained  to  her.  He  said  ladies 
got  excited  sometimes  and  didn't  put  down 
exactly  what  they  meant,  but  he  understood  that 
and  always  used  his  judgment,  he'd  had  so  much 
experience." 

Tired  as  he  was  Tom  laughed,  and  the  sound 
cleared  away  a  little  of  the  impalpable  disappoint 
ment  both  had  felt  since  they  entered  the  house. 
It  seemed  inexplicably  cramped,  not  so  fresh  and 
spaced  as  they  had  pictured  it.  Everything  was 
in  place,  indeed,  and  not  badly  placed,  though  in 

26 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 


more  than  one  instance  the  allotted  areas  had 
proved  insufficient  and  the  furniture  had  crowded 
uncomfortably.  But  the  change  from  the  old 
environment  had  turned  out  a  little  disastrous,  it 
had  to  be  admitted  frankly.  The  ceilings,  which 
had  seemed  beautifully  proportioned,  looked 
strangely  low,  now  that  the  high -boy  and  old 
secretary  nearly  reached  them ;  the  fire  -  irons 
dwarfed  the  hearth,  which  had  seemed  ample  in 
the  empty  room;  the  very  doors  had  narrowed  in 
their  full  city  draperies. 

In  silence  they  fell  upon  the  soup  and  roast  that 
even  the  small  range  had  not  spoiled,  and  un 
der  the  cheering 
influence  of  hot, 
freshly  cooked 
food  Susy  smiled 
again  and  Tom 
proposed  a  thor 
ough  survey, 
even  allowing 
Martin,  sleepy 
with  the  sud 
den  warmth  and 
double  rations 
of  toast  -  and- 
milk  and  molas 
ses-cake,  trium- 

3 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

phantly  eaten  with  the  grown  people,  to  accom- 
pany  them. 

They  toiled  up  the  stairs,  each  bravely  conceal 
ing  from  the  other  the  shock  of  their  narrowness, 
when  carpeted;  and  the  utter  inadequacy  of  the 
landing,  where  the  grandfather  clock,  their  pride 
in  the  city,  nearly  crowded  unwary  climbers 
over  the  rail.  In  the  upper  hall  Susy  stopped, 
staring. 

' '  I  can't  help  it, Tom,  but  I'm  all  turned  around !" 
she  cried  despairingly.  "What  is  Martin's  room 
doing  there?  Are  those  stairs,  beyond  the  bath 
room?" 

"That's  not  the  bath-room,  Mrs.  Wilbour," 
Bell  announced  instructively,  "that's  Thomas's 
and  mine.  It's  awful  small.  And  I  hate  to  have 
Martin  'way  off  alone,  there.  He  does  get  so  un 
covered.  I  told  that  Mr.  Bumpus  so,  but  he  said 
orders  was  orders.  But  ain't  these  floors  lovely, 
ma'am?" 

Tom  glanced  unconsciously  at  the  elaborate 
inlay  under  his  feet,  stared,  lifted  the  rug,  and 
stared  again.  He  looked  up  hastily  at  Susy,  but 
she  was  arguing  with  the  obstinate  Bell  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  Martin's  room,  and  did  not  notice 
her  husband  when  he  gasped  audibly,  seized  the 
handle  of  the  nearest  door,  and  plunged  into  the 
large  room  where  Mr.  Bumpus's  experience  had 

28 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

placed  the  two  three-quarter  brass  beds  of  Susy's 
plan. 

In  a  moment  he  emerged,  and  the  extraor 
dinary  expression  of  his  countenance  arrested 
her  on  the  verge  of  her  own  further  explora 
tion. 

"Why,  Tom,  what  is  it?  Is  —  is  anything 
wrong?" 

"Toots,"  he  said,  his  voice  quivering  strangely, 
"oblige  me  by  looking  into  that  room.  Keep 
calm,  now.  Only  look." 

Hesitatingly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  changing 
features,  Susy  moved  to  the  door,  turned  the 
handle  slowly,  and  entered.  A  moment  later  a 
short,  breathless  shriek  brought  them  all  in  to 
her.  Sitting  on  the  three  -  quarter  brass  bed 
with  square  columns  which  has  been  mentioned 
before,  she  pointed  wildly  to  an  old  -  fashioned 
fireplace  with  a  high,  heavy  fender  in  front  of 
it  and  quaint  porcelain  tiles  set  about  it.  Around 
the  wall,  at  the  level  of  the  high  fender,  ran 
a  frieze  representing  Jack  and  Jill,  the  Three 
Blind  Mice,  the  Death  of  Cock  Robin,  and  other 
classic  tragedies,  sufficiently  decorative,  to  be 
sure,  but  not  of  a  character  usually  selected  by 
adults  for  the  adornment  of  their  sleeping-apart 
ments. 

"Tom!     TomWilbour!"  she  cried  hysterically, 

2Q 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of     A    BOY 


"what  is  this  room?     Where  is  it?     Where  are 
we?" 

"My  dear,"  her  husband  replied  with  the  quiet 
tones  of  utter  resignation,  "to  be  perfectly  frank 
with  you,  I  haven't  the  least  idea!  I  feel  like 
friend  Jos.  P.  Weeks :  if  any  one  had  told  me  that 
Slide  &  JBumpus  could  have  done  what  they  have 
done,  I  should  say  they  lied!  They've  moved  us, 
Toots,  they've  moved  us — but  the  Lord  knows 
where!" 


II 


WHICH    DEALS    WITH    THE    INTELLECTUAL    LIFE 


HE  excitement  of  the  hunt  for  their 
real  home,  the  pleasure  of  finding  it, 
and  finding  it  far  more  suited  to 
their  needs  than  the  one  provided 
by  Messrs.  Slide  &  Bumpus,  and  the 
breathless  dash  of  establishing  themselves  in  it 
swept  along  the  house  of  Wilbour  in  a  wild  rush, 
an  actual  fury  of  living,  that  caused  their  entire 
past  to  appear  dull  and  uneventful  in  the  extreme. 
Mad  meals  were  snatched  here  and  there  in  un 
heard-of  places ;  a  general  flavor  of  cold  meat  and 
casual  desserts  marked  the  period;  and  between 
their  contrite  efforts  to  reinstate  the  possessions 
of  the  innocent  and  ignorant  owners  of  the  wrong 

31 


house,  and  their  strenuous  dismantling  of  their  own 
effects,  life  grew  almost  too  complicated  for 
patience.  Susy,  having  staked  her  reputation  for 
efficiency  upon  Slide  &  Bumpus — and  lost  it — 
refused  with  characteristic  disgust  any  further 
commerce  with  any  sort  of  professional  assistance, 
and  got  those  articles  which  a  certain  well-known 
woman  writer  would  undoubtedly  have  described 
as  "her  household  gods"  over  the  necessary  half 
mile  of  country  road  with  very  much  the  primitive 
methods  adopted  by  Mrs.  Noah  on  the  occasion 
of  that  lady's  retirement  to  the  Ark. 

Relying  upon  Bell's  known  accuracy  of  memory, 
they  arranged  such  of  the  original  furniture  as  had 
withstood  the  shock  of  Mr.  Bumpus's  scornful 
casting  out,  according  to  the  nurse's  proud  and 
apparently  competent  directions ;  but  many  of  the 
pieces  had  only  too  clearly  seen  their  best  days 
before  they  were  so  rudely  thrown  into  the  barn, 
and  that  the  short  exodus  had  not  improved  them 
was  terribly  obvious.  To  replace  things  of  such 
character  was  difficult  if  not  impossible,  and  Susy 
swayed  between  tears  and  laughter,  as  battered 
ebony  easels,  limping  bamboo  tables,  suspiciously 
ancestral  fire-screens  and  incredible  crayon  por 
traits  emerged  from  the  great  heap  in  the  old  barn, 
shrank  almost  visibly  under  the  caustic  comments 
of  Mr.  Wilbour  and  found  their  way  into  painfully 

32 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

prominent  corners  under  Bell's  important  guid 
ance 

"They  must  be  a  queer  lot,"  Tom  grumbled  dis 
gustedly,  unearthing  an  extraordinary  amateur 
oil-painting  of  Niagara  by  moonlight:  a  yard  of 
light  green  water,  adorned  with  what  appeared  to 
be  saucers  of  whipped  cream. 

"Think  of  having  matched- wood  floors  and  tiled 
fireplaces  like  that,  and  then  pictures  like  this!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Susy  answered  perversely, 
"other  people  have  different  sorts  of  things,  too. 
Look  at  that  old  Sistine  Madonna  we  have  to  keep 
in  sight  on  account  of  Aunt  Emma!" 

Tom  snorted  argumentatively,  and  stood  Niag 
ara  -  by-  moonlight  bottom  side  up,  which  rather 
improved  it  than  otherwise,  in  his  wrath. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Toots!"  he  burst  forth,  "don't 
be  an  idiot!  Engravings  of  the  Sistine  Madonna 
are  bad  enough,  I  admit,  but  Raphael  never  com 
promised  himself  to  this  extent!"  He  glared  at 
the  absurd  whipped-creamy  water  and  staggered 
under  it  to  the  hall,  where  Bell  serenely  directed 
its  location. 

This  easy  mastery  of  events,  as  displayed  by 
their  nurse,  completely  captivated  Martin  and  his 
brother.  Long  had  she  represented  to  them  the 
height  of  executive  ability  and  implacable  au 
thority;  long  had  her  judgment  and  address  decid- 

33 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

ed  the  ultimate  issues  of  their  small  lives;  but 
never  before  had  they  seen  their  parents  thus  hang 
upon  her  lightest  word,  and  she  loomed  before 
them  accordingly — a  demi-goddess,  a  sort  of  benig 
nant  Fate.  At  her  command  their  father  rolled  a 
clumsy  square  piano  across  the  room,  and  fitted  it, 
with  compressed  lips,  into  an  inconvenient  alcove. 
On  her  pause  for  reflection  their  mother  paused 
also,  a  dented  "Rogers'  group"  balanced  at 
shoulder  height,  her  brows  knitted  anxiously  till 
Bell  unbent  her  own  and  waved  her  hand  toward 
a  plush-topped,  three-legged  table  under  the  most 
haunting  of  the  crayon  portraits.  There  were  no 
inconsequent  bursts  of  laughter,  now,  at  this 
wonder-nurse's  remarks,  no  amused  tolerance  of 
her  persistencies,  no  criticism  of  her  methods. 
Clearly  she  was  appreciated  at  last,  held  at  her 
true  value,  placed  properly  at  the  head  of  the 
household,  and  Martin  watched  her  with  pro 
prietary  pride. 

The  whole  experience  of  moving  had,  indeed, 
been  most  entertaining  and  instructive  to  the 
youth.  Never  in  the  six  years  of  his  life  had  he 
been  so  left  to  his  own  devices,  so  free  to  ad 
minister  to  Thomas  that  valuable  fraternal  dis 
cipline  to  which  so  many  of  our  young  men  owe 
whatever  strength  of  character  they  can  call  their 
own  to-day.  To  tell  the  truth,  Thomas  seemed 

34 


SITE    LOOMED    BEFORE    THEM,  A   DEMI-GODDESS 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

not  wholly  appreciative  of  the  advantages  of  this 
freedom  on  his  brother's  part,  and  after  some 
unusual  bout  of  brotherly  exertion  on  his  ungrate 
ful  behalf  would  often  call  to  mind  a  small,  too- 
thoroughly-snuffed  candle!  But  on  the  whole 
he  admired  Martin  and  respected  his  trousers  and 
his  temper  equally,  and  his  roly-poly  little  person 
was  considered  reasonably  safe  in  his  brother's 
custody. 

On  the  evening  of  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
day  of  Bell's  supremacy  the  younger  members 
of  the  Wilbour  family  snatched  a  hasty  supper 
of  hominy  and  milk,  served  somewhat  irrelevantly 
in  a  cut-glass  salad  -  bowl,  although  eaten  with 
pewter  spoons  from  the  kitchen.  They  were 
sitting  side  by  side  upon  a  piano-bench  drawn  up 
to  the  library  table-desk,  and  the  unprejudiced 
observer  might  have  been  pardoned  his  mild 
curiosity  as  to  Bell's  reasons  for  selecting  the  exact 
middle  of  the  lower  hall  for  the  scene  of  the  meal — 
their  first  in  their  new  home.  No  one  could  move 
himself  or  his  burden  in  or  out  of  the  house  without 
bumping  into  some  one  of  the  trio ;  the  sharp  edge 
of  the  piano -bench  threatened  every  shin  within 
a  yard  of  it;  each  interesting  arrival  or  departure 
elicited  a  whoop  of  congratulation  from  Martin 
and  diverted  Thomas's  attention  from  his  hominy 
with  woful  results  to  the  mahogany  surface  of  the 

37 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

desk.  But  wild  horses  could  not  have  dragged 
their  nurse  from  what  she  considered,  evidently, 
to  be  a  commanding  position,  and  her  air  of  easy 
authority  when  directing  the  only  assistants 
Susy  would  tolerate — two  thick-skulled  Italian 
laborers — lost  nothing  in  her  admiring  charges' 
estimation  from  the  fact  that  her  remarks  were 
quite  unintelligible  to  the  persons  addressed. 

"Everybody  minds  you,  don't  they,  Bell?" 
said  Martin  respectfully,  recovering  from  a  violent 
shock  as  his  father's  chiffonier  trotted  by  him  on 
two  mysterious  legs,  and  just  saving  Thomas's 
last  spoonful  from  drenching  the  rug,  as  that 
interested  infant  tried  to  consume  it  with 
his  head  twisted  around  between  his  shoulder- 
blades. 

"They  might  do  worse  sometimes,"  Bell  replied 
conservatively.  "I'm  not  so  helpless  as  some.— 
Here,  take  that  into  the  bath-room!  Bath 
room  !  Understand  ? ' ' 

"Si,  si,  signora"  the  Italian  murmured  pacifi 
cally,  trotting  into  the  dining-room  and  depos 
iting  the  nickel  sponge-rack  and  soap-dish  on 
either  side  the  fernery  on  the  sideboard. 

"If  your  mother  'd  speak  louder,  those  Dagoes 
would  understand  her  as  well  as  me,"  she  added 
didactically,  "but  you  can't  boss  'em  with  hat 
pins  in  your  mouth — not  properly,  that  is." 

38 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"No  baf-room!"  Thomas  announced  abruptly, 
with  one  of  his  disconcerting  appreciations  of  the 
situation — never  to  be  counted  on,  never  to  be 
guarded  against.  "No  baf-room:  diney-woom! 
Bad  man  run  off  Thomas'  soapey  -  dish.  No 
sponge-baf  fahver's  diney-woom!  Thomas  put 
in  tub.  Good-bye — come  again,  thank  you!" 

"You  stay  where  you  are,  Thomas  Wilbour! 
What  are  you  talking  about  ?  Of  course  you 
won't  have  a  sponge -bath  in  the  dining-room! 
The  idea!  Now  you  go  right  on  and  eat  that 
bread.  It's  too  fresh  for  you,  but  it  can't  be 
helped,  with  things  as  upset  as  they  are.  Try  to 
chew  it  good,  now.  Will  Thomas  chew?" 

"No.     Thomas  get  soapey-dish.     No  chew." 

"There's  where  you're  foolish,"  remarked  his 
father,  coming  up  unexpectedly  with  an  armful  of 
sash  -  curtains  on  one  arm  and  three  armfuls  of 
portieres  on  the  other.  His  articulation  was 
obscured  by  the  draperies,  but  his  intonation  was 
unmistakable. 

"If  I  had  some  soap— or  anything — to  chew, 
you  can  bet  I'd  chew  it !  I've  had  little  or  nothing 
since  those  sardines  and  mustard  pickles  this  noon. 
Bell,  isn't  anything  ready  yet?  I  can't  stand  this 
much  longer.  Really." 

"I'll  see,  Mr.  Wilbour,  but  I  don't  hardly  think 
so,"  returned  Bell  somewhat  patronizingly;  "those 

39 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

Dagoes  are  dreadful  slow.  And  they  took  the 
kitchen  things  out  into  the  stable  the  first  time, 
you  know,  and  they  had  to  be  all  brought  back. 
But  I'll  see." 

Tom  sank  dispiritedly  upon  the  portieres  and 
stared  hungrily  at  the  empty  salad-bowl. 

"Lord!  I  wish  we'd  stayed  with  Niagara-by- 
moonlight,"  he  sighed;  "there  was  a  fire  in  that 
range.  What  are  you  eating,  Susan  Wilbour? 
Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Lemon  layer-cake,"  said  Susy  complacently, 
wiping  off  the  last  crumbs  with  a  dusty  hand  and 
depositing  a  bronze  bust  of  Napoleon  in  a  terra 
cotta  flower -bowl.  "Mary  made  it  just  before 
we  came  and  forgot  about  it.  There's  some  more 
in  the  linen -closet.  Right  next  your  hat-box. 
Children,  why  aren't  you  in  bed?" 

"We  haven't  got  any  beds,"  Martin  informed 
her  cheerfully,  "so  I  guess  we  can't  never  prob'ly 
go  any  more  for  a  long,  1-o-n-g  time.  They  won't 
go  into  the  door — they're  too  fat.  So  the  Dagoes 
took  'em  all  apart  and  now  they're  too  apart, 
you  know.  So  Thomas  is  going  to  sleep  in 
the  bath  -  tub  and  I  'm  going  to  sit  up  late. 
See?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  train  that  boy  to  say 
'See?'  that  way,"  Tom  observed  irritably;  "he 
sounds  like  a  Yiddish  necktie  peddler.  Heaven 

40 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

knows,  I'm  not  particularly — cr,  er — -particular, 
but— 

"You're  particularly  idiotic,"  Susy  interrupted 
warmly,  "if  you  think  that  I  or  anybody  else 
trains  him  to  say  that!  I  don't  know  where  in  the 
world  the  horrid  child  picked  it  up.  You  might 
as  well  say  that  I  train  Thomas  to  blow  his  nose 
on  his  sleeve — -why  don't  you  ?  He  does  it  all  the 
time." 

She  picked  Napoleon  out  of  the  terra-cotta  jar 
and  departed  with  her  own  nose  at  a  haughty 
angle,  feeling,  evidently,  that  she  had  accomplished 
a  retreat  worthy  of  her  burden.  No  such  exit 
was  possible  for  Tom,  who  sat  silently  on  his 
portieres,  hopelessly  entangled  in  sash -curtains, 
hungry,  sulky,  and  deprived  of  even  such  relief 
as  his  bursts  of  rhetoric  afforded  him  by  the 
absence  of  any  audience,  for  Bell  had  tactfully 
removed  the  objects  of  parental  criticism,  and  the 
miscellaneously  crowded  hall  was  his  alone. 

But  the  ten  minutes'  gloom  which  shrouded  him 
till  Susy  appeared  forgivingly,  staggering  under  a 
heart-warming  tray  of  fragrant  beefsteak  and  cof 
fee,  buttered  rolls  and  jam  tarts,  was  not  without 
its  momentous  effect;  for  a  week  later,  when,  in  his 
own  metaphor,  the  smoke  of  battle  had  cleared 
away,  when  the  soap-dish  and  sponge-rack  no 
longer  polluted  the  sideboard,  and  each  function 

41 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

of  life  was  restored  to  its  normal  scene,  Tom  seized 
the  occasion  of  a  Saturday  afternoon  family  stroll 
about  the  estate  for  opening  his  mind  upon  what 
he  had  evidently  come  to  regard  as  an  important 
subject. 

"Susy,"  he  said  abruptly,  "when  is  Binks  going 
to  school?" 

The  direct  and  unadorned  nature  of  this  remark 
would  have  indicated  to  any  one  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Wilbour's  methods  that  he  was  extremely 
doubtful  as  to  its  effects  on  the  listener,  but  quite 
determined  to  pursue  the  matter.  This  attitude 
on  his  part  was,  however,  entirely  unnecessary, 
for  Susy,  to  his  surprise,  replied  meekly:  "Why, 
whenever  you  say,  Tom  dear.  Do  you  want  him 
to  go  now?" 

Relieved  by  this  active  co-operation,  Tom 
relaxed  and  descended  to  explanation. 

"I  don't  doubt  it's  all  right,  you  know,  to  put  it 
off  for  girls  as  long  as  you  want — it  probably 
doesn't  make  any  difference.  But  Binks  is  a  boy, 
you  see,  dear,  and  he  is  getting  just  a  little  .  .  . 
well,  just  a  little  ..." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Susy  thoughtfully.  "He 
certainly  is  a  boy." 

"You  think  so  yourself,  don't  you,  Toots?" 

"I — I  suppose  so,"  Susy  admitted,  "though  I 
did  want  to  try  keeping  him  out  a  year  or  two 

42 


"IT     KEEPS     THEIR     MINDS     BACK,    TOM,   AXD    THAT'S     BETTER 
FOR    THEM  " 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

more — every  one  seems  to  think  it's  better,  nowa 
days." 

"But  why?"  Tom  demanded.  "I  know  you 
said  that  last  year,  but  what's  the  point  ?" 

"Why,  it  keeps  their  minds  back,  Torn,  and— 
and  that's  better  for  them,  you  know." 

"Why?"  her  husband  repeated  obstinately. 
"Don't  they  need  all  the  mind  that's  coming  to 
them?" 

' '  Oh,  of  course,  Tom.  Don't  be  silly !  But  don't 
you  remember  that  awfully  clever  woman  we  met 
at  the  Upsons',  that  writes  those  beautiful  stories? 
She  has  a  little  girl,  you  know,  and  she  said  herself 
that  if  the  child  ever  learned  to  count  more  num 
bers  than  she  was  years  old,  she  was  going  to  spank 
her!  You  see  what  she  thinks  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  replied  her  husband  coldly,  "and 
I  also  see  that  I  don't  give  a  continental  hang  for 
her  and  her  books.  You  mark  my  words,  Toots, 
if  ever  you  hear  a  darn-fool  thing  to-day,  you  can 
make  up  your  mind  that  some  woman  said  it  that 
writes  books.  They're  sure  to.  Who  wrote  those 
books  about  bringing  up  children  that  Aunt  Em 
was  always  studying  when  she  lived  with  us? 
Women.  Who  lectured  those  imbecile  lectures 
you  used  to  hand  out  good  money  for?  Women. 
Who  got  up  those  clubs  that  made  you  all  fight 
with  each  other,  so  that  I  hadn't  a  place  to  go  to 
4  45 


TUB    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

for  a  decent  game  of  bridge  ?  Women.  It  ought 
to  be  a  crime  for  any  woman  to  have  children  that 
writes  books." 

"I  don't  believe  they  do,  most  of  them,"  Susy 
interpolated  vaguely  if  soothingly.  "But  there's 
that  German  man,  Tom,  that  Aunt  Emma  went  to 
hear  lecture — he  wasn't  a  woman.  And  he  said 
he  never  went  to  school  till  he  was  twelve.  And 
now  he's  a  professor  at  Harvard." 

"I'll  bet  he  is,"  said  Mr.  Wilbour  disgustedly. 
"If  they  don't  write  books  they're  always  pro 
fessors.  That's  the  idea  exactly.  Or  magazine 
editors.  Do  you  know, ' '  he  demanded  indignantly, 
"that  that  little  man  with  the  rough-rider  hat 
that's  always  trying  to  tell  me  how  to  play  my 
own  hand — I  pointed  him  out  to  you  last  week — 
actually  gave  me  a  long  lecture  about  taking  the 
kids  out  every  morning  and  dropping  them  into 
the  brook  ?  He  said  it  would  make  hardy  citizens 
of  'em.  He  tried  to  get  me  to  promise  I  would. 
I  thought  he  had  six  of  his  own  at  least,  and  I 
hoped  they'd  turn  out  hardier  than  he  is — he's 
always  cursing  about  his  digestion.  And  what 
do  you  think?  He's  an  editor  of  the  ladies' 
Own  Monthly,  and  never  had  a  child  in  his  life! 
Writes  articles  on  tatting  and  how  to  make  a 
nice  apple-pie  without  any  apples,  I  haven't  a 
doubt!" 

46 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Susy  giggled. 

"Perhaps  that's  why  those  recipes  are  so  bad," 
she  added  contemplatively.  "I  never  could  get 
one  to  come  out  fit  to  eat." 

They  leaned  over  a  misshapen  rail-fence,  rain- 
and-weather  washed  to  a  lovely,  silvery  violet, 
and  watched  Martin  and  Thomas  gather  dandelions. 
Martin  made  a  neat  bouquet  of  his,  but  Thomas 
followed  the  more  original  method  of  snapping 
them  off  at  the  head  and  sitting  on  them  firmly, 
to  make  sure  of  them. 

"There's  a  nice  little  kindergarten  in  the 
village,"  Susy  began,  after  a  contented  pause. 
"It  must  be  nice,  because  Doctor  Partridge's 
little  girl  goes  and  the  Ballantynes'  two  children. 
They  drive  in  three  miles  for  it.  The  woman  sent 
me  a  note.  It's  only  from  nine  to  half-past  eleven 
in  the  morning,  and  they  do  hardly  anything  but 
play  out-of-doors  —  with  a  trained  teacher,  too. 
They  can  have  broth  at  ten,  if  you  want  them  to. 
They  study  nature,  mostly." 

Tom  snorted  and  was  only  too  evidently  about 
to  begin  a  speech,  but  his  wife  checked  this  with 
a  clever  flank  movement. 

"But  you  have  to  promise  they  sha'n't  play 
with  those  scroll-saw  puzzles,"  she  concluded 
hastily,  "for  Mrs.  Trayner  thinks  they  are  far  too 
stimulating  for  any  child  under  ten.  You  can 

47 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

have  square  blocks,  if  there  are  only  cows  and 
things  like  that  to  make  with  them." 

"Can  you  play  hide-and-seek?"  Tom  inquired 
respectfully.  "That's  an  awful  nervous  strain, 
sometimes." 

"Of  course.  The  teacher  is  to  teach  them  all 
those  games,  Tom.  And  they  learn  them  in  the 
proper  order.  It  makes  a  great  difference,  she  says. ' ' 

"For  the  Lord's  sake!" 

Tom  ceased  his  efforts  to  imitate  upon  a  grass- 
blade  the  crowing  of  a  cock,  and  stared  at  his  in 
nocent  offspring,  who  were  shamelessly  antedating 
professional  instruction  by  an  elaborate  and  fairly 
successful  imitation  of  a  baseball  nine. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'm  to  pay  her  perfectly 
good  money  to  teach  Binks  how  to  play  jack- 
stones?"  he  asked  resignedly. 

"I  don't  believe  she'd  let  him  play  jack-stones 
when  he's  only  six,"  Susy  answered  thoughtfully. 

"Listen  to  me,  Susan  Wilbour,"  he  announced, 
"I  will  send  the  boy  there,  but  on  one  condition. 
If  they  don't  take  his  temperature  before  he  be 
gins  to  learn  squat-tag,  I'll  sue  them!" 

It  is  to  be  doubted  if  this  ultimatum  was  con 
veyed  to  Mrs.  Trayner,  but  at  nine  o'clock  on  the 
very  next  Monday  the  name  of  Martin  Brinkerhoff 
Wilbour  was  formally  entered  upon  that  lady's 
books,  and  the  owner  of  the  title  left  the  home- 

48 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

circle,  as  it  were,  for  those  broader  fields  of  effort 
that  must,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  con 
tinue  to  be  his  earthly  portion.  He  was  driven 
thither  by  Susy,  who  proposed  to  usurp  the 
privileges  of  the  coachman-gardener  during  good 
weather  and  to  conduct  Tom  to  his  not-too-im 
possibly-early  train,  to  his  great  delight — and  the 
almost  equal  pleasure  of  the  coachman-gardener. 

Martin  sat  importantly  on  the  little  seat  so 
miraculously  adapted  to  his  needs,  and  Tom 
directed  the  course  of  the  steed,  whom  he  had  in 
sisted  upon  rechristening  Fido.  The  extinction 
of  his  early  title  had  made  no  difference  whatever 
to  the  animal  who,  as  Tom  said,  by  any  other  name 
would  go  as  fast,  inasmuch  as  he  never  altered  his 
gait  under  any  circumstances. 

The  air  was  clear  and  balmy,  the  roomy  old 
buggy — a  sort  of  doctor's  phaeton — glistened  with 
fresh  varnish  and  new  harness,  its  side-lamps 
winked  and  gleamed.  Martin  was  attired  in  an 
entirely  new  sailor  suit  of  neat  blue-and-white ; 
an  impeccable  broad  hat  of  creamy  straw  pro 
tected  his  sleek  and  accurately  parted  hair.  His 
finger-nails  were  quite  beyond  criticism.  The 
scarf  on  Susy's  new  spring  hat  rivalled  the  new 
spring  sky;  a  fluffy  white  bow  beneath  her  chin 
pictured  the  clouds  that  flecked  the  blue  above 
her.  Tom  had  doffed  his  winter  derby  for  a  light 

49 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

gray  felt  affair  which  became  him  immensely  in  the 
opinion  of  his  household,  and  altogether  it  was  a 
decorative  trio  that  met  the  train  that  morning. 

Susy  rilled  the  interval  between  Tom's  depart 
ure  and  the  school-hour  with  judicious  counsels, 
calculated,  from  the  maternal  point  of  view,  to  set 
her  son  firmly  on  the  path  to  fame  and  fortune, 
and  Martin,  deeply  impressed  by  this  plunge  into 
public  life,  listened  amiably  and  promised  largely. 

They  drew  up  before  the  modest  little  Colonial 
house,  which  had  all  the  air  of  a  social  function, 
so  numerous  were  the  motors,  governess  carts,  and 
pony  wagons  on  the  neat  round  sweep  of  the  en 
trance  drive.  The  young  students,  accompanied 
for  the  most  part  by  nurses,  though  there  wrere 
three  or  four  mothers  present,  were  in  the  act  of 
descending  from  their  various  conveyances,  and 
the  whole  scene  was  unusually  bright  and  cheerful. 
Susy  smiled  at  the  pretty  picture. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  a 
reckless  rattle  of  wheels,  and  a  gay  red  grocer's 
cart  dashed  by  all  the  rest  and  drew  up  with  a 
nourish  before  the  door.  From  among  the  kerosene 
cans  and  baskets  of  assorted  green  stuffs  there 
leaped  a  young  woman  with  a  fat  and  serious  in 
fant  held  bundle  wise  under  her  arm.  In  front  of 
all  the  amazed  circle  she  dashed,  fell  upon  a  sur 
prised  child,  dragged  him  from  the  iron  step  where 

5° 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 


he  was  poised  somewhat  perilously,  and  embraced 
him  wildly,  crying  as  she  did  so: 

"Oh,  Martin,  good-bye,  good-bye!  It's  the  last 
time!  Say  good-bye  to  your  own  Bell,  for  you're 
not  her  baby  any  more!" 

Susy  turned  crimson  with  humiliation  and 
horror  as  Bell's  excited  sobs  rent  the  air,  but  worse 
was  to  come,  for  with  an  effort  the  nurse  lifted  her 
dazed  charge  to  her  shoulder,  dropped  Thomas 
by  her  side,  and,  pressing  Martin  to  her  breast, 
waved  her  free  hand  dramatically  at  the  spell 
bound  spectators. 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"And  I  had  him  from  the  bottle!"  she  cried, 
burying  her  face  in  his  sailor  collar. 

This  was  too  much  for  Martin,  who  raised  his 
voice  and  wept  aloud,  clinging  to  his  anguished 
nurse.  But  even  as  Susy  lifted  her  ashamed 
eyes  his  wails  were  drowned  in  the  chorus  of  weep 
ing  that  suddenly  resounded  from  all  sides,  for 
three  of  the  nurses,  overwhelmed  by  the  subtle 
tragedy,  choked  violently  and  hugged  their 
charges,  who  in  turn  bellowed  sympathetically. 
Two  attendant  mothers  were  obliged  to  resort  to 
their  handkerchiefs,  which  upset  their  children 
completely,  and  even  a  fat  old  coachman  drew  his 
sleeve  across  his  eyes  as  the  touching  scene  de 
veloped.  Before  her  blush  had  faded  the  corners 
of  Susy's  mouth  were  quivering  dangerously,  and 
in  a  moment  more  she  was  clasping  Thomas  and 
weeping  with  the  rest ;  so  that  all  around  that  once 
cheerful  driveway  arose  the  sobs  and  wails  of  the 
most  marvellously  sudden  transformation  scene 
the  neat  Colonial  house  had  ever  witnessed. 

Mrs.  Trayner,  appearing  on  the  porch  with  a 
beaming  smile  and  a  happy,  "Good-morning, 
children!  Is  not  this  a  bright,  beautiful- 
stopped  short  in  terrified  amazement  at  the  ex 
traordinary  sights  and  sounds  before  her,  and  it 
was  some  time  before  she  was  able  to  comprehend 
them — if,  indeed,  she  ever  really  did  this.  No  one 

52 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

oi  her  patrons  cared  to  risk  the  responsibility  of 
an  explanation,  and  her  expression  of  ill-concealed 
surprise  and  pardonable  curiosity  lasted  long 
after  the  last  damp,  clinging  child  had  been  firmly 
detached  and  headed  for  her  door  and  the  last  hys 
terical  nurse  braced  into  something  like  self- 
control. 

"Why  are  they  all—  What  is  the  matter?" 
she  had  demanded  nervously  from  an  unmoved 
mother  who  with  her  equally  stoical  daughter  had 
regarded  the  whole  mad  moment  with  the  air  of 
a  bored  box-holder. 

"Because  a  young  woman  jumped  out  of  a 
grocery  cart  and  said  that  she  had  had  that  little 
boy  in  the  striped  sailor  suit  from  the  bottle," 
this  callous  parent  had  replied  satirically,  and  Mrs. 
Trayner  had  shaken  her  head  in  puzzled  depre 
cation  and  herded  her  small  scholars  into  the 
house. 

It  could  not  be  denied:  the  day  had  begun 
badly.  Long  after  Susy  had  forgiven  the  re 
pentant  Bell  and  driven  her  home  did  the  morn 
ing's  cloud  hang  over  Mrs.  Trayner 's  School  for 
Young  Children.  Two,  indeed,  of  the  Young 
Children  failed  utterly  to  recover  their  spirits  and 
burst  into  gulping  sobs  on  the  slightest  provoca 
tion,  so  that  they  had  to  be  isolated  in  the  dining- 
room,  as  their  attacks  proved  infectious  to  a 

53 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

degree.  The  rest  paid  for  their  emotional  de 
bauch  by  nervous  irritability  and  a  tendency 
to  argument,  aided,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
by  the  injudicious  comments  of  the  new  pupil, 
who  spoke  his  mind  freely,  with  embarrassing 
results. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Trayner  alluringly,  ''that 
this  little  boy  who  has  just  come  to  join  us  at  our 
work  and  play  would  like  to  learn  to  make  one 
of  these  pretty  chains." 

She  held  up  a  series  of  rings  of  lemon-colored 
paper  strips,  looped  each  into  the  other,  the  ends 
neatly  gummed  with  photographic  paste,  and 
dangled  it  invitingly,  but  it  proved  an  unfortunate 
choice  of  bait. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to,"  said  Martin  politely 
but  with  decision. 

"What! — not  a  pretty  chain  like  this?" 

"I  don't  think  it's  pretty,"  he  explained. 

"But  all  the  other  little  children  think  so," 
argued  Mrs.  Trayner  appealingly. 

"But  I  don't,"  he  said  firmly. 

Several  of  the  children  had  stopped  by  now 
and  regarded  the  two  curiously:  retreat  would 
have  been  shameful. 

"Then  suppose  you  learn  to  make  some  for 
your  mamma,"  suggested  the  teacher;  "that  is 
what  our  little  boys  and  girls  do." 

54 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

"She  wouldn't  like  'em,  either,  I  don't  think," 
said  Martin  patiently,  but  with  a  clearly  flagging 
interest.  "Aren't  there  any  toys  here?  I  have  an 
engine  at  home." 

"So  hav'e  I!"  shrieked  a  fat  boy  in  a  corner, 
smearing  his  paste  frightfully. 


TME    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

"I've  got  a  parlor-car  on  mine:  it  tumbles  over 
like  this,"  piped  up  a  little  girl  with  long  dark 
curls,  falling  abruptly  under  the  table  as  she  spoke, 
to  the  great  delight  of  her  brother,  who  furtively 
stepped  on  her  while  pretending  to  discover  her 
whereabouts. 

By  dint  of  equal  parts  of  patience  and  main 
strength,  order  was  finally  restored,  and  Martin, 
after  superhuman  efforts,  was  induced  to  address 
himself  to  the  lemon  -  colored  chain  -  work.  He 
proved  an  apt  pupil,  and  Mrs.  Trayner  had  already 
begun  to  erase  the  black  mark  that  had  been 
steadily  growing  against  him  in  her  estimation 
before  she  left  his  side.  In  a  very  few  moments  he 
was  working  as  deftly  as  many  an  artist  in  chains 
of  long  standing,  and  with  a  pat  of  encourage 
ment  the  teacher  left  him  and  went  on  to  the 
advanced  pupils  who  were  engaged  in  the  con 
struction  of  rickety  paper  bird-cages.  When  next 
she  glanced  at  the  new  member  his  chain  was  so 
incredibly  long  that  she  was  forced  to  doubt  the 
neatness  of  its  technique,  and  hastened  to  him, 
expecting  to  find  him  smeared  with  paste,  and 
forecasting  her  fears  audibly. 

"No,  there  isn't  too  much  paste  on  'em,"  he 
assured  her  affably;  "there  isn't  none  at  all.  I 
made  'em  without." 

"But  how  could  you  have  made  them  stick 
56 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

together  so,  Martin  dear?  Listen,  children,  while 
clever  little  Martin  tells  us  ho\v  he  made  the  ends 
of  his  strips  hold  together  without  using  paste," 
cried  Mrs.  Trayner  trustfully. 

"I  spit  on  'em!"  said  Binks  briefly,  indicating 
by  an  unspeakable  gesture  the  method  he  had 
employed,  and  in  the  disgusting  fever  of  emula 
tion  which  followed  the  session  closed.  .  .  . 

Never  in  all  her  blameless  career  had  it  occurred 
to  Mrs.  Trayner  to  have  encountered  the  equal 
of  her  latest  acquisition,  and  the  School  for  Young 
Children  developed  undreamed-of  tendencies  un 
der  his  moral  impact.  And  yet,  as  she  ruefully 
assured  his  anxious  mother,  Martin  was  not  a  bad 
boy.  He  had  no  vicious  tendencies ;  he  was  truth 
ful,  brave,  and  fairly  industrious.  His  principal 
fault,  though  Mrs.  Trayner  was  not  quite  equal 
to  discussing  this  phase  of  his  character,  wTas  his 
disconcerting  way  of  "blocking  Frobel's  game," 
in  the  irreverent  language  of  his  father.  No  soon 
er  did  this  great  educator  announce  a  basic  theory 
of  child  nature  than  Binks  completely  annihilated 
this  theory.  His  caustic  comments  chilled  the 
hitherto  satisfactory  games;  his  contemptuous 
criticism  of  the  helpful  little  contests  rendered  the 
participants  idiotic  in  their  own  eyes ;  the  peculiar 
school  of  poetry  consecrated  to  this  form  of 
education  proved  all  too  bald  and  unadorned  for 

57 


THE    BIOGRAPHY   Of   A    BOY 

his  riotous  fancy,  and  his  reckless,  not  to  say 
vulgar,  emendations  shocked  the  teachers  as 
much  as  they  delighted  the  children;  last,  but  not 
least,  the  constructive  art-features  of  the  system 
found  and  left  him  strangely  cold.  Let  those 
who  would  raise  shrill  voices  of  praise  at  the  evolu 
tion  of  some  unequalled  complication  of  red-and- 
blue  shiny  paper — the  voice  of  Binks  was  not 
among  the  chorus.  Like  the  person  in  the  poem, 
he  seemed  to  be  whispering,  "It's  clever — but 
is  it  Art?" 

Nevertheless,  some  unnamed  instinct  impelled 
him  to  the  ceaseless  production  of  the  ill-fated 
chains  with  which  he  had  christened  his  educa 
tional  career,  and  unending  yards  of  blue,  red,  and 
yellow  stickiness  filled  the  house.  It  would  have 
been  against  every  kindergarten  canon  to  destroy 
these  monuments  of  youthful  toil  and  filial  de 
votion,  and  they  soon  formed  the  main  decoration 
of  the  bedroom  floor  of  his  home.  The  loathsome 
baubles  draped  bureau  and  bed,  wall-space  and 
window  -  frame.  They  dangled  on  Susy's  head 
till  she  shrieked  with  nervous  terror,  they  fell  into 
Tom's  bath  and  twined  about  his  brushes.  Thomas 
ate  them  in  preference  to  any  other  form  of 
nourishment,  and  dried  and  disconnected  segments 
of  them  rolled  down  the  stairs  and  fell  out  of 
the  windows.  It  was  like  some  horrible  Biblical 

58 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

plague — and  so  far  as  Mrs.  Trayncr  knew,  Frobel 
afforded  no  antidote.  In  all  that  great  System 
there  was  no  way  to  stop  Martin  Wilbour  from 
manufacturing  paper  ehaiiis! 

It  is  doubtful  if  anything  short  of  the  inter 
vention  of  the  Federal  Government  would  have 
freed  the  house  of  Wilbour  from  this  incubus  had 
it  not  been  for  the  opportune  arrival  of  Aunt 
Emma.  No  longer  a  member  of  the  family  of 
her  niece  and  nephew — who  were  as  dear  to  her 
as  if  they  had  been  her  own  children — she  was 
yet  far  from  the  status  of  any  ordinary  guest,  and 
her  tactful  suggestion  that  the  looped  horrors 
should  be  sent  in  quantity  to  the  Crippled  Chil 
dren's  Home  called  forth  a  storm  of  enthusiastic 
approval,  although  Tom's  gloomy  fear  that  the 
crippled  children  would  henceforth  be  handi 
capped  by  imbecility  as  well  dimmed  Susy's 
pleasure  for  a  moment. 

Aunt  Emma's  interest  in  intellectual  systems 
was  as  keen  as  ever,  and  not  many  days  had  passed 
before  she  had  thoroughly  inspected  Martin's 
school  and  returned  characteristically  impressed 
by  Mrs.  Trayner — who,  it  must  be  owned,  was 
quite  accustomed  to  impress  everybody  but  Mar 
tin  Wilbour.  She  had  found  the  conduct  of  the 
educational  institution  almost  flawless,  Susy 
decided  from  her  report.  Almost,  but  not  quite; 

59 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

for  Tom  had  read  large  print  at  five,  and  his  father, 
one  gathered,  read  with  expression  and  marked 
selective  powers  from  the  Scriptures  at  the  age 
of  four.  Aunt  Emma  confessed  that  in  her 
opinion  a  little  less  paper  bird-cage  and  a  little 
more  First  Reader  would  seem  to  hold  out  more 
hope  for  the  future.  In  vain  her  niece  recounted 
to  her  the  dangers  of  excessive  and  premature 
cerebral  stirmilation ;  in  vain  Tom  cited  sar 
donically  the  case  of  the  book -writing  woman 
and  her  spanked  daughter  —  Miss  Wilbour  was 
firm. 

' '  Is  anything  the  matter  with  Tom  ? ' '  she 
demanded.  ' '  Was  ever  a  word  spoken  about 
my  brother  Thomas's  brain  ?  He  might  make 
those  clay  eggs,  too  —  but  he  could  learn  to 
read!" 

However,  Susy  obtained  her  loyal  promise  not 
to  teach  him,  for  a  reading  member  was  as  hope 
lessly  banished  from  Mrs.  Trayner's  Young  Chil 
dren  as  the  unwise  virgins  from  the  Bridegroom, 
and  there  was  no  other  such  select  establishment 
in  sight.  She  promised,  too,  not  to  impart  the 
terrors  of  Bluebeard  till  the  proper  age  for  that 
indispensable  classic  (eight  to  nine  years) ,  and  sub 
mitted  to  a  graded  list  of  nursery  favorites  for 
home  narration,  whose  only  weak  point  was  that 
Martin  refused  to  listen  to  the  selections  judged 

60 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

suitable  to  his  time  of  life,  and  listened  to  the 
others  from  Bell,  whom  no  one  had  thought  to 
warn. 

After  this  almost  irreparable  error  Susy  grewr 
a  very  gorgon  of  forethought,  and  chancing  upon 
the  waitress  arranging  some  hitherto  harmless 
lettered  blocks  to  form  the  word  "  cat,"  confiscated 
them  all,  and  included  in  a  moving  address  nurse, 
cook,  and  housemaid,  obtaining  from  them  a 
solemn  vow  to  keep  Master  Martin  from  undue 
cerebral  excitation,  as  far  as  in  them  lay,  picturing 
so  vividly  the  shame  of  his  expulsion  from  his 
present  seat  of  learning  as  to  draw  tears  from  the 
cook's  eyes. 

Mother  Goose,  that  ageless  classic  of  the  nursery, 
was  not  banned,  however,  though  a  distinct  re 
serve  was  recommended  in  the  matter  of  those 
poems  dealing  with  sudden  and  violent  death. 
This,  unfortunately,  mutilated  the  volume  ap 
preciably,  as  the  maternal  Goose  resembles  all 
early  national  bards  in  a  slashing  disregard  for 
the  finer  feelings  of  a  neurasthenic  generation, 
and  Aunt  Emma  complained  that  it  was  hard 
to  interest  her  great  -  nephew  in  the  expurga 
ted  edition.  He  knew  them  all  by  heart,  and 
it  sometimes  chilled  his  mother  to  the  marrow 
to  mark  the  natural  manner  in  which  he  held 
the  volume,  cleverly  deducing  the  rhymes  from 

5  6l 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 


the  attendant 
pictures,  and  de 
claiming  with  ab 
solute  acciiracy 
for  astonishing 
lengths  of  time. 

His  father,  on 
one  of  these  oc 
casions,  turned 
from  a  spirited 
rendering  of  Sim 
ple  Simon  to  ask 
abruptly,  "Did 
you  notice  he  says 
'  ayny '  for  '  any '  ? 
He  says,  'Indeed, 
I  haven't  ayny.' 

He    never   hears   it   pronounced   like   that,   does 

he?" 

"Why,  no,  I  suppose  not,"  Susy  replied  vaguely; 

"he'll  outgrowr  it,  anyway." 

"What  makes  him  say  that  one  about  'a  dillar, 

a  dollar,  a  ten-o'clock  scholar'  so  slowly?"  Tom 

pursued. 

"Because  he's  trying  to  remember  it,  I  suppose. 

I  didn't  know  he  knew  that  one.     They  learn  so 

quickly.     Aunt   Emma  must  have  read  that  to 

him." 

62 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"No,  I  didn't,  Susy,"  said  Aunt  Emma;  "that's 
in  a  new  rag  book,  and  we  haven't  gone  over  it 
yet." 

"It  was  Bell!"  cried  Martin  hastily.  "Bell, 
she  told  it  to  me!" 

Tom  looked  thoughtful,  but  said  no  more.  On 
the  next  Saturday  he  appeared  with  a  new  and 
gorgeous  rag  book,  filled  with  animals  of  every 
hue,  and  presented  it  to  his  youngest  son. 

"Binks  talk  picshures  to  Thomas — Binks  talk 
book!"  the  little  fellow  begged. 

"But  Binks  doesn't  know  those  pictures, 
darling:  that's  a  new  book.  Give  to  mother — 
mother  talk,"  said  Susy. 

"Oh,  Binks  knows  all  those — Bell  has  read  them 
all  to  him  in  other  books,"  Tom  answered  careless 
ly,  at  which  Martin's  face  brightened,  and  he 
seized  the  book,  turned  it  right  side  up,  and 
recited,  in  loud,  didactic  tones,  to  the  enraptured 
Thomas : 

"  Look  at  our  bon-ny  brown  cow! 
Give  us  some  milk,  bos-sy,  now. 
Do  not  turn  pale 
When  she  swishes  her  tail, 
For  she  is  a  gentle  old  cow!" 

"Don't  say  'swyshes,'  Martin;  it's  'swishes'," 
said  Susy.  "What  a  nice  story!  How  well  you 
know  it!" 

63 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"He  knows  it  about  as  well  as  you  do!"  Tom 
shouted.  ' '  Binks,  you  little  rascal,  the  game  is  up ! 
Susy,  that  boy  will  be  President  some  day,  as  sure 
as  fate." 

"Tom  Wilbour,  what  do  you  mean?  What's 
the  matter?" 

Tom  snatched  the  book  from  his  son  and  tossed 
it  at  Susy. 

"It's  just  published  to-day!"  he  cried.  "Bell 
never  read  it  to  him  because  she  never  saw  it — 
nor  anybody  else.  My  dear,  that  little  devil  can 
read  as  well  as — as — as  anything!"  he  concluded 
lamely  but  triumphantly. 

Confused,  convicted,  Martin  faced  them  like  a 
mouse  at  bay.  Susy  stared  accusingly  at  Aunt 
Emma. 

"And  you  promised!"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"And  I  kept  it,"  Miss  Wilbour  replied  proudly. 
"I  never  had  the  least  idea  he  could  read,  Susy!" 

"It  was  Bell,  then." 

"Indeed  it  was  not,  then,  Mrs.  Wilbour!  Again 
and  again  I've  refused  to  show  him  'dog'  and 
'cat'  with  the  blocks!"  cried  Bell  indignantly. 
"But  I'll  bet  I  know  who  did  it!  So  that's  why 
you  were  off  at  the  barn  so  much,  and  me  thinking 
all  the  time  you  were  with  the  animals,  like  your 
teacher  said  was  so  fine  for  you!  Oh,  but  you're 
the  sly  one!  I  might  have  known.  I  always 

64 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

said  there  was  something  underhand  about  Myron 
Plummer,  and  now  he's  taught  you  to  read!" 

"He  said  I'd  surprise  my  ma,"  Martin  ventured 
tentatively. 

"And  so  you  have,"  Tom  said,  choking  with 
laughter  at  Susy's  dazed  face  and  Aunt  Emma's 
tragic  eyes,  "so  you  have,  Binks,  and  your  pa  too, 
though  not  so  much.  Cheer  up,  Toots — it  might 
be  worse,  you  know!  He  can  live  it  down:  many 
of  us  have." 

"And  I  took  such  pains  with  everybody,"  poor 
Susy  began.  "And  then  to  learn  from  the  hired 
man!  Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  judgment!" 

Aunt  Emma's  tones  vibrated  with  horror. 
Again  Tom  choked. 

"It's  one  on  us,"  he  admitted  cheerfully. 
"Well,  Binks,  you're  dished,  so  far  as  the  Young 
Children  are  concerned — that's  certain!  Never 
mind,  my  boy.  Run  up  and  bring  down  your 
Differential  Calculus,  and  then  we'll  have  a  page  or 
two  from  dear  old  Homer  before  we  go  to  bed. 
College  opens  in  the  fall,  you  know!" 


Ill 


WHICH  DEALS  WITH  THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATURE 

JUSY'S  was  a  disposition  far  too  hon 
est  to  attempt  to  conceal  from  Mrs. 
Trayner  the  black  truth  of  her  un 
happy  son's  '  indefensible  excursions 
into  literature;  and  in  accordance 
with  the  immitigable  rules  of  that  lady's  estab 
lishment,  in  comparison  with  which  the  regula 
tions  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  faded  into  in 
definite  and  elastic  by-laws,  the  name  of  Martin 
Brinkerhoff  Wilbour  was,  with  decent  expressions 
of  regret,  expunged  from  the  rostrum  of  the 
School  for  Young  Children,  and  his  little  arts-and- 
crafts  oaken  work-table  knew  him  no  more.  It 
would  be  untactful  to  delve  too  thoroughly  into 

66 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

the  depths  of  this  regret:  the  proprieties  were 
fully  observed,  and  on  the  first  day  of  his  absence 
the  central  chandelier  was  touchingly  draped  with 
paper  chains  of  the  missing  student's  own  manu 
facture.  But  to  deny  that  the  teaching  force  of 
the  School  for  Young  Children  drew  its  first  easy 
breath  for  several  weeks  would  be  to  suppress  the 
mere  truth,  and  no  one  could  have  failed  to  observe 
that  the  exercise  of  the  day  glided  to  a  neat  and 
decorous  finish  as  they  had  not  done  since  one  no 
longer  there  first  disturbed  their  even  tenor. 

Susy,  who  had  accepted  in  their  entirety  the 
rulings  of  the  institution  and  had  been  secretly 
more  moved  by  the  dictum  of  the  Upsons'  book- 
writing  friend  than  she  had  admitted  to  her  hus 
band,  was  sincerely  shocked  at  her  son's  dis 
ingenuous  methods  of  mental  development,  and 
refused  to  condone  his  offence  or  listen  to  any 
further  exhibition  of  his  powers.  She  even  exact 
ed  from  him  a  solemn  promise  not  to  impart  his 
ill-gotten  learning  to  his  innocent  brother,  and 
looked  thoroughly  pained  when  Aunt  Emma  be 
trayed  her  own  irrepressible  satisfaction  in  her 
nephew's  achievements,  t 

"But  it  didn't  hurt  Tom!"  the  good  lady  re 
iterated  with  puzzled  emphasis.  "I  can't  see,  Susy, 
why  you  feel  so  badly  about  it.  Anybody  would 
think  the  poor  child  had  committed  a  crime!" 

67 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Things  are  different  now,  Aunt  Emma,"  the 
young  matron  assured  her  with  an  evident  sense 
of  restraint. 

"Ye-es,"  Aunt  Emma  admitted  unconvinced, 
"but  if  anything,  I  should  think  they'd  have  to 
begin  earlier — there's  so  much  more  to  learn.  And 
especially  boys,"  she  added  decidedly- — "auto 
mobiles  and  air-ships  and  wireless  telegraphy,  and 
all  that,  you  know.  And  yet  there  are  all  the  old 
things,  too.  Martin  will  have  to  learn  all  that  Tom 
did,  and  more  besides — goodness  knows  how  much 
more,  if  Mr.  Edison  keeps  on  inventing  all  the 
time!" 

"You  think  so,  Aunt  Emma,  but  that's  just 
where  you're  wrong!"  cried  her  niece  triumphant 
ly.  "That's  just  the  point.  Binks  won't  have  to 
learn  what  Tom  did.  A  lot  of  that  silly  stuff  was 
only  a  wraste  of  time,  and  the  most  advanced 
schools  don't  teach  it  now.  Look  at  the  way  I 
cried  over  that  nasty  old  Compound  Interest  at 
Miss  Crammer's — and  what  earthly  good  did  it 
ever  do  me  or  any  of  the  girls  ?  And  geography 
is  so  different  now." 

"Different  ?"  queried  Aunt  Emma.  "You  mean 
they've  discovered  more  in  that  empty  part  of 
Africa — things  like  that?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Susy  impatiently,  "I  mean  the 
way  they  teach  it.  I  was  lunching  with  Minnie 

68 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Sears  yesterday,  and  she  was  telling  me  about 
Dorothy's  geography.  You  know  they  don't 
bound  things  any  more  and  they  don't  use  a  book 
much,  anyway." 

"What  do  they  use?"  Aunt  Emma  asked  in 
bewilderment. 

"Why,  they  take  them  for  walks,  and  then  they 
see  about  hills  and  valleys,  and  then  the  lake  in 
Central  Park,  you  know,  and  after  it  rains  there 
are  little  rivers  that  flow  through  the  mud — you 
can  do  it  with  the  end  of  your  umbrella,"  Susy 
explained,  evidently  quoting  vigorously. 

"But  I  can't  see  how  taking  them  to  walk  in 
the  Park  is  going  to  teach  them  where — where 
Costa  Rica  is,  and  the  Amazon,  and — and  all  such 
places,  Susy,"  Aunt  Emma  argued  plaintively. 

"Minnie  says  that  Dorothy's  teacher  says  that  a 
person  can  live  a  happy,  cultured  life  without 
knowing  the  whereabouts  of  many  places  once 
considered  necessary,"  Susy  returned  glibly,  "and 
I  believe  Costa  Rica  is  one  of  them,  Aunt  Emma! 
When  I  remember  the  awful  times  I  went  through, 
bounding  those  foolish  countries  in  South  America, 
it  makes  my  head  ache  now!" 

Aunt  Emma  said  nothing,  but  appeared  un 
convinced,  and  Susy  went  on,  with  the  absorption 
in  her  subject  that  always  marked  a  new  idea  with 
her: 

69 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Then  history,  Aunt  Emma.  They  have  such 
a  nice  idea  about  teaching  it :  at  that  luncheon  of 
Minnie's  there  was  a  cousin  of  hers  that  lives  in 
Concord,  and  she  was  telling  how  her  children  learn 
history.  The  teacher  just  takes  them  out  to 
walk,  and  they  visit  all  the  historical  places,  and 
then  they  go  by  trolley  to  Lexington,  and  see  the 
very  spots  where  it  all  happened.  And  they  go  in 
and  study  about  Bunker  Hill  right  on  the  spot." 

"Um!"  said  Aunt  Emma  doubtfully.  "That 
may  be  all  very  well  for  Concord,  Susy,  because  a 
great  deal  of  history  happened  there.  But  I  don't 
know  what  the  children  would  have  done  in 
Taylorsville,  Illinois.  Uncle  James  Taylor  found 
ed  that  town  himself,  and  there  wasn't  much  his 
tory  going  on  there  except  what  Uncle  James  and 
the  other  men  made — and  they  were  in  business 
mostly,"  she  added  thoughtfully. 

A  loud  burst  of  laughter  from  the  hall  greeted 
this  contribution  to  contemporary  pedagogics,  and 
Tom  hurried  in  and  clapped  his  aunt  heartily  on 
the  back. 

"There's  where  you  win  hands  down,  Aunt 
Em!"  he  cried  joyously.  "Go  on,  both  of  you! 
I'll  be  referee  and  bottle-holder  and— 

' '  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  bottle-holder," 
his  wife  interrupted  with  dignity.  "You  could 
never  begin  to  hold  six,  like  those  wire  ones  that 

70 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

Bell  had  for  Thomas! — And  I  think  it's  perfectly 
horrid  of  you  to  listen  out  there  when  I'm  talking! 
It  makes  me  feel  so  silly.  And  it's  nothing  I  in 
vented,  anyway,  Tom  Wilbour,  and  I  don't  feel  at 
all  like  kissing  you  when  you  are  laughing  at  me. 
If  you  could  hear  what  some  other  mothers  think 
about  what  their  children  ought  not  to  know, 
you'd  find  that  I  was  very  moderate — ve-ry 
mod-e-rate  in-deed!"  Susy  declaimed  breathlessly. 

"Well,  you're  not  moderately  good-looking, 
anyway,"  her  husband  replied,  with  a  calm  con 
viction  that  dismissed  all  suspicion  of  a  purposely 
tactful  answer ;  "  is  she,  Aunt  Em  ?  You  look  about 
eighteen — I'm  so  glad  you  don't  get  white  with 
anger,  Toots,  like  people  in  books! — What  do  the 
other  mothers  think?" 

Relenting  a  little — as  who  would  not? — Mrs. 
Wilbour  sat  upon  the  arm  of  his  wicker  porch- 
chair  (they  were  trying  to  believe  that  summer  had 
come)  and  continued  earnestly: 

"Well,  that  woman — what  is  her  name,  Aunt 
Emma?  I  read  you  a  beautiful  story  of  hers  in 
one  of  the  new  magazines  this  month:  that  one 
about  the  child  that  didn't  die,  finally  —  that 
woman,  Tom,  that  said  she'd  spank  her  little  girl, 
you  remember — 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  are  we  to  have  another 
dose  of  that  woman?"  Tom  sighed  and  stretched 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

his  legs  enduringly.  ''Well,  get  it  over.  What's 
her  trouble,  now?  Child  learned  to  come  in  when 
it  rains,  by  mistake?" 

"Not  at  all,"  his  wife  replied  with  dignity. 
"That  little  girl  is  eight  years  old,  and  has  never 
been  inside  a  school  nor  had  a  governess.  All  she 
is  learning  is  riding  and  swimming.  She  is  leaping 
bars  now  and  diving.  Her  mother  is  going  to 
keep  her  back  as  long  as  possible." 

"Well,  I  wish  her  luck,"  said  Tom  briefly. 
"It's  a  pity  the  kid  didn't  take  after  its  mother: 
if  it  had  turned  out  as  dippy  as  she  is,  there 
wouldn't  be  any  difficulty  in  keeping  it  back — 
the  trouble  would  be  to  keep  it  out  of  the  asy 
lum!" 

"I  think  that  is  simply  wicked,  Susy,"  Aunt 
Emma  added  decidedly.  "The  child  won't  thank 
her  for  such  treatment  later,  let  me  tell  you !  She 
should  send  it  to  school  immediately." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  cried  Susy.  "And  supposing  she 
did,  Aunt  Emma?  What  do  you  think  it  would 
learn  there  ?  There  was  a  friend  of  that  cousin  of 
Minnie's  that  lives  in  Concord  at  the  luncheon, 
and  she  told  us  what  her  boy  was  studying.  What 
do  you  think  it  was?'' 

"What?"  Aunt  Emma,  asked  breathlessly,  for 
it  was  characteristic  of  the  good  woman  that  her 
interest  in  each  new  theory  of  life  was  as  un- 

72 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

quenchable  as  if  she  had  never  disgustedly  aban 
doned  each  in  turn. 

"And  a  very  expensive  school,  too,"  Susy 
added  impressively,  "and  most  select.  Only  the 
very  best  Boston  families." 

She  faced  them  defiantly,  for  Tom  and  Aunt 
Emma  were  both  against  her  now,  and  checked 
each  subject  off  on  a  pointing,  rosy  finger. 

"Bee-keeping;  etching  on  copper;  fancy  dan 
cing,  and  Greek  history!"  she  enumerated  solemn 
ly,  and  their  awe-struck  countenances  assured  her 
she  had  not  lunched  with  Minne  Sears  in  vain. 

"By  Godfrey!"  Tom  muttered,  shaking  his 
head — "by  Godfrey,  Toots!" 

Aunt  Emma  arose,  and  shook  out  her  skirts 
thoroughly — her  method  of  exhibiting  utter  res 
ignation. 

"Well,  Susy,"  she  said,  "of  course  it  is  no 
affair  of  mine,  but  if  that  is  the  idea  nowadays, 
I  must  say  I  agree  with  Mrs.  Trayner  that  Martin 
would  develop  quite  as  well  for  another  year  with 
Nature  and  the  animals!" 

To  Nature  and  the  animals,  accordingly,  Mar 
tin  was  consigned;  and  as  no  one  ever  caught 
Nature  in  the  act  of  administrating  any  specific 
instructions,  so  to  speak,  it  was  impossible  to 
quarrel  with  the  first  of  these  great  teachers. 

But  it  is  only  just  to  Mrs.  Trayner  to  conclude 
73 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

that  she  had  never  employed  many  animals  upon 
her  own  Faculty;  nor,  indeed,  associated  to  any 
great  extent  with  those  humbler  brothers  of  the 
human  race.  In  this  easy  disposal  of  responsi 
bility,  however,  the  lady  does  not  stand  alone, 
for  one  famous  professor  of  ethics  has  summarily 
sent  more  than  one  sluggard  to  an  insect  proved 
by  modern  scientists  and  philosophers  only  too 
little  capable  of  affording  a  valuable  example  to 
any  practical  person;  and  if  Solomon  mistook 
his  data,  how  shall  Mrs.  Trayner  be  blamed  for 
inaccuracy  ? 

It  might  be  urged,  moreover,  that  the  stock  of 
animals  in  the  Wilbour's  possession  failed  to  repre 
sent  the  brute  creation  adequately.  But  for  this 
the  young  people  were  hardly  responsible,  as,  with 
the  exception  of  Fido  the  horse,  all  were  gifts. 
Tom's  senior  partner,  on  learning  of  the  contem 
plated  country  exodus,  had  enthusiastically  pre 
sented  his  colleague  with  a  pair  of  spotty  black- 
and-white  hounds,  of  the  genus  known  in  the 
country  as  "carriage  dogs."  Naturally,  Tom 
had  accepted  them  thankfully,  though  he  had 
planned  for  an  Irish  terrier,  and  Susy  had  set  her 
heart  upon  a  Russian  wrolf-hound.  Two  dogs, 
however,  were  considered  sufficient,  particularly 
as  in  recommending  these  two  to  the  family's 
affections  the  senior  partner  had  impressed  upon 

74 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Tom  the  fact  that  they  were  none  too  friendly 
to  other  dogs,  and  apt  to  be  jealous,  even,  of 
visiting  pets.  Their  names  were  "Happy"  and 
"Dapple,"  but  these  were  soon  modified  by  their 
new  master  to  "Lappy"  and  "Drabble,"  which 
better  described  their  habits  of  respectively  crawl 
ing  into  every  known  variety  of  filth  and  leaping 
onto  the  knees  of  every  one,  notwithstanding  a 
weight  of  fifty-odd  pounds. 

Martin,  like  every  healthy  boy  of  six,  pined  for 
a  goat  and  cart,  and  it  had  been  one  of  Susy's 
cherished  plans  to  buy  him  one  as  soon  as  they 
should  get  into  the  country.  It  was  with  the 
most  unaffected  pleasure,  therefore,  that  she 
learned  of  the  expressed  intention  of  her  son's 
godmother  to  present  him  with  one.  She,  her 
self,  had  looked  no  higher  than  the  ordinary 
short-haired  goat  of  commerce,  and  was  much 
impressed  when  an  enormous  shaggy  creature, 
dripping  with  cream  -  colored,  curly  locks  that 
trailed  to  the  ground,  and  horned  elaborately,  ap 
peared  before  their  humble  gate,  accompanied  by 
a  fresh  and  brilliantly  scarlet  equipage,  at  sight 
of  which  Martin  had  screamed  for  joy. 

Around  the  goat's  neck  was  a  label  which  read, 
' '  I  come  to  darling  Binks,  from  Godmother,  with 
hopes  for  a  happy  future  together."  But  after  an 
attempt  to  detach  this  label  had  nearly  cost  Tom 

75 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

an  eye,  and  when  an  equally  ill-advised  essay  on 
Myron  Plummcr's  part  to  hiteh  the  beast  to  its 
cart  rendered  their  hired  man's  right  arm  useless 
for  a  week,  Tom  decided  that  the  future  referred 
to  must  have  been  a  heavenly  one,  though  if 
the  goat's  share  in  this  was  at  all  assured,  Mr. 
Wilbour  was  convinced  that  all  he  had  learned 
in  youth  about  the  place  was  entirely  errone 
ous. 

The  animal's  name  was  Mildred,  and  as  it  was 
perfectly  aware  of  this,  and  was  a  goat  of  great 
determination  and  fixity  of  character,  it  was  use 
less  to  change  it  to  any  one  of  the  many  more 
suitable  titles  that  readily  occurred  to  the  Wil- 
bours.  Mildred  turned  out  to  have  been  pur 
chased  second-hand,  at  a  great  reduction,  by  Mar 
tin's  godmother,  who,  with  an  unfortunate  lack 
of  practicality,  had  neglected  to  inquire  the  rea 
sons  for  such  cheapness — not  that  she  would  have 
been  cheap  at  any  price  in  Myron  Plummer's 
possibly  prejudiced  opinion,  to  whose  enlightened 
mind  no  reasons  were  required.  Any  further  at 
tempt  to  hitch  her  to  her  cart  would  be,  obviously, 
as  reckless  as  futile,  and  she  roamed  the  orchard, 
remarkable  only  for  her  superfluity  of  hair  and 
ungovernable  disposition.  Nevertheless,  Susy  re 
garded  the  purchase  of  another  and  more  amena 
ble  of  her  class  as  the  wildest  extravagance,  and 

76 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 


poor  Martin  was  wont  to  regard  her  wistfully  from 
afar,  vainly  endeavoring  to  propitiate  her  with 
offerings  of  carrots  and  sugar,  which  he  was 
obliged  to  deposit  on  a  certain  rock  of  the  wily 
animal's  own  selection,  previous  to  a  hasty  escape 
from  the  wrath  to  come,  for  she  detested  children, 
and  was  perfectly  frank  about  it. 

Aunt  Emma  herself  was  responsible  for  the 
next  pet.  She  had  observed  a  small  and  dis 
pirited  donkey  dragging  stones  from  an  old  wall 
in  what  had  once  been,  evidently,  a  handsome 
little  two-wheeled  cart;  and  heartbroken  at  the 
cruel  treatment  of  the  little  beast,  who  was 
beaten  steadily  by  the  half-grown  boy  in  charge 
6  77 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

of  it,  she  had  complained  of  this  to  the  boy's 
father.  This  gentleman,  a  foxy-faced  teamster 
in  dirty  corduroys,  agreed  with  her  heartily  as  to 
the  severity  of  his  son's  methods,  but  explained 
them  (with  a  sly  glance  at  Martin,  who  was 
with  her)  by  the  fact  that  the  beast  was  really 
a  child's  pet  and  not  at  all  a  working  animal,  but 
that  having  purchased  it  for  this  purpose  and 
been  cruelly  deceived,  he  felt  himself  too  poor 
to  forego  the  services  of  the  donkey,  and  was 
compelled,  much  against  his  will,  to  witness  this 
degradation  of  a  fine,  well -broken,  gentle  play 
mate  for  some  fortunate  son  of  a  wealthier  parent 
than  he. 

"Gentle?"  Aunt  Emma  repeated  hopefully, 
with  visions  of  the  unspeakable  Mildred. 

The  teamster's  son  was  promptly  dispatched 
for  a  carrot  and  a  bit  of  bread,  and  the  enrapt 
ured  Martin  fed  these  to  the  undoubtedly  well-dis 
posed  little  creature.  A  moment  later  he  was 
sitting  on  its  back  in  triumph,  and  its  easy  pace 
and  deliberate  rate  of  progress  were  perfectly 
convincing,  even  to  a  maiden  aunt. 

"A  lick  o'  paint  on  that  cart,  ma'am,  a  bolt  here 
and  there,  and  new  cushions,  and  the  President's 
sons  might  be  proud  to  sit  in  it!"  observed  the 
owner  of  the  cart  dispassionately. 

"But — but  the  expense  of  its  food,"  Aunt 
78 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

Emma  urged.  "I  should  not  feel  justified  in 
charging  any  one  with  that,  even  with  a  gift." 

"It's  plain  you  ain't  used  to  a  jackass,  ma'am," 
replied  the  teamster  pityingly;  "the  windy  side 
of  a  barn  is  what  the  saying  is — for  them,  ma'am. 
No  one  don't  ever  expect  to  lay  out  a  penny  on 
a  jackass.  I  assure  you  of  that." 

It  was  quite  evident  that  he  practised  what  he 
preached,  for  the  poor  little  creature's  ribs  were 
clearly  defined,  and  its  hungry  nosing  of  Martin's 
fingers  showed  the  unaccustomed  nature  of  its 
little  luncheon. 

When  Aunt  Emma  found  that  twenty  dollars 
would  purchase  both  donkey  and  cart,  she  struck 
the  bargain  instantly,  and  both  purchases  ap 
peared  before  the  surprised  heads  of  the  house 
in  short  order. 

Susy  was  much  pleased,  and  a  week,  during 
which  time  Cousin  Albert  (for  Tom  had  insisted 
on  christening  the  new  pet  on  the  strength  of  an 
undoubted  resemblance  in  expression)  gained  a 
little  in  weight,  saw  him  obediently  dragging  a 
new  painted  cart  around  the  driveway.  To  be 
sure,  the  bill  for  painting,  varnishing,  repairing, 
adding  reins,  whips,  and  cushions,  was  of  a  nature 
to  be  carefully  concealed  from  Aunt  Emma;  but, 
as  Tom  said,  a  pet  that  neither  leaped  at  your 
throat  nor  sought  to  impale  you  on  its  horns 

79 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

was  worth  something,  and  Cousin  Albert  was  far 
from  these  or  any  other  ferocious  courses.  In 
deed,  so  meek  was  he  that  Susy,  after  seeing  him 
fall  between  the  shafts,  apparently  from  over- 
exertion,  after  a  dozen  circuits  of  the  driveway, 
sternly  forbade  his  further  use  till  he  had  got 
a  little  stronger  and  outgrew  the  teamster's  ill 
usage,  and  he  was  fed  almost  constantly  by  the 
eager  children  and  the  kindly  servants.  When 
not  thus  engaged  he  was  absorbedly  cropping 
grass,  and  Martin,  who,  with  the  connivance  of 
Myron  Plummer,  stole  several  furtive  rides  upon 
his  daily-broadening  back,  observed  a  growing 
tendency  to  restlessness  in  Cousin  Albert,  coupled 
with  a  contrary  tendency  to  stand  perfectly  still 
for  minutes  together,  discouraging  in  the  extreme 
to  a  young  rider.  While  things  were  in  this  state 
a  week's  heavy  rain  kept  everybody  away  from 
him,  and  on  the  heels  of  this  a  widespread  epi 
demic  of  measles  frightened  Susy  into  sending 
Bell  with  both  the  children  to  her  sister  for  three 
weeks,  taking  this  occasion,  herself,  for  many  long- 
promised  little  visits  to  old  friends.  Aunt  Emma 
took  care  of  the  house,  and  Tom,  who  had  begun 
to  be  a  little  overworked,  spent  most  of  his  free 
hours  at  his  club,  running  out  wherever  Susy 
might  be  for  little  holidays  now  and  then. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  to  Cousin 
80 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    Of  A    BOY 

Albert's  fancy,  and  he  ate  steadily  for  twenty 
hours  out  of  the  twenty-four,  assisted  enthusias 
tically  by  Aunt  Emma,  who  marked  with  delight 
his  sleek  and  rounding  sides  and  stoked  him  like 
a  furnace.  She  wrote  delightful  letters  about 
him  to  Martin,  who  skipped  with  joy  and  ordered 
him  to  meet  himself  and  his  brother  at  the  station 
and  convey  them  home. 

But  only  Myron  Plummer  met  them,  driving 
the  faithful  Fido.  As  he  descended  and  handed 
the  reins  to  Susy,  who  was  to  drive  the  children, 
leaving  Bell  to  walk  the  scant  mile  from  the 
station  with  the  friendly  hired  man,  Martin  in 
quired  somewhat  sulkily  why  Cousin  Albert  had 
not  complied  with  his  request.  The  result  was 
disconcerting,  for  Myron  Plummer  burst  into  a 
loud  guffaw  that  startled  every  living  thing  within 
hearing,  and  slapped  his  leg  with  such  force  as  to 
nearly  throw  himself  over. 

"Cousin  Albert!"  he  bellowed  with  rich  en 
joyment —  "Cousin  Albert!  Oh  yes!  I  guess 
so!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Myron?  What  is  the 
matter  with  the  donkey?"  Susy  inquired  with 
dignity,  while  the  children  held  their  breaths 
with  anxiety. 

' '  Matter  ?"  cried  Myron  Plummer.  ' '  Why,  Mis' 
Wilbour,  that  durn  little  jackass  has  et  him- 

81 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

self  so  near  the  bustin'- point  that  you  couldn't 
no  more  get  him  inter  them  shafts  than  you  could 
'n'  el'phant.  No,  nor  never  will,  if  you  ask  me. 
He's  a  reg'lar  butterball !  And  frisky  ?  My  Lord ! 
you  can't  get  near  him  to  touch  him,  let  alone 
harness  him.  Martin  better  watch  out  for  his 
heels,  I  tell  you!  He's  a  terror,  he  is — Cousin 
Albert!  Yes,  I  guess  so!" 

They  left  him  shouting  with  his  rural  mirth, 
and  a  little  later  regarded  the  subject  of  his  out 
burst — wistfully,  but  not  too  near.  For  Cousin 
Albert  had  waxed  fat  and  kicked,  like  his  Script 
ural  predecessors ;  and  though  his  extra  food  was 
strictly  cut  off,  there  was  no  way  of  keeping  him 
from  the  grass  but  muzzling,  and  as  no  one  could 
be  found  who  would  volunteer  to  do  this,  he 
swaggered  about  the  pasture  lot,  sleek  and  scorn 
ful,  so  utterly  at  variance  writh  his  narrow  little 
shafts  that  Tom  professed  to  believe  he  had 
never  fitted  them,  and  had  been  artificially  reduced 
in  order  to  make  their  use  possible. 

To  Mrs.  Trayner,  who,  on  the  occasion  of  her 
school's  closing,  was  making  a  semi-professional 
call  on  Susy,  Cousin  Albert  appeared  picturesque 
to  a  degree,  and  she  declared  herself  quite  cap 
tivated  by  his  gentle  gambols,  and  begged  per 
mission  to  escort  the  School  for  Young  Children 
to  the  pasture,  in  a  body,  the  following  autumn, 

82 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

enlarging  upon  the  conviction  that  nothing- 
even  her  own  justly  famous  method — could  ever 
approach  in  educative  value  the  reverent  and  mi 
nute  study  of  the  domestic  animals. 

"In  many  ways,"  she  added  magnanimously, 
"your  dear  little  Martin,  left,  as  you  have  left 
him  so  wisely,  to  the  simplest,  greatest  influences 
of  all,  will  learn  much  that  we  never  could  have 
taught  him,  had  he  stayed- 
She  was  interrupted  by  a  terrible  braying,  a 
wild  "hee-haw!  hee-ha\v!  hee-haw!"  that  shocked 
every  sense,  closely  followed  by  an  astonishing 
ly  accurate  imitation  of  the  cry  of  an  angry 
goat.  A  frightful  clatter,  an  indescribable  stam 
pede  that  threw  furniture  and  tea  -  cups  to  the 
veranda  floor,  alternated  with  a  series  of  mys 
terious  thuds,  drove  the  blood  from  Mrs.  Tray- 
ner's  cheek  and  alarmed  even  Susy  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"The  animals  are  on  the  porch!"  cried  the  un 
nerved  guest,  "but,  thank  Heaven,  Mr.  Wilbour 
is  coming  up  the  path — he  can  face  them!  Oh, 
what  is  the  matter  with  him?" 

For  Tom  had  stopped  abruptly  and  stood  star 
ing  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  evidently  a  prey 
to  mixed  emotions.  With  a  short,  angry  ex 
clamation,  Susy  thrust  open  the  French  window 
and  stood  upon  the  porch.  About  the  floor  an 

83 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

animated  fur  rug  appeared  to  be  running  amuck; 
four  stubby  tan  shoes  supported  it  and  confused 
her,  until  she  observed  that  sleeves  were  thrust 
into  two  of  these.  A  pair  of  flopping  brown  ears, 
strangely  familiar,  but  connected  in  her  mind 


with  an  old  rocking-horse,  waved  at  the  forefront 
of  this  creature ;  its  horrid  brays  afflicted  the  ear. 
Staggering  along  behind  it  appeared  a  smaller 
creature,  neatly  fitted  into  an  Angora  baby- 
wagon  blanket.  Soiled  white  stockings  were 
drawn  over  the  four  legs  of  this  beast,  which  ex- 

84 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

hibited  a  tendency  to  lose  its  balance  and  roll 
from  time  to  time,  though  never  stopping  for  a 
moment  its  metallic  and  yet  life-like  bleating.  At 
regular  intervals  the  two  collided  furiously,  and 
at  such  times  the  fur-rug  beast  would  thud  ter 
ribly  with  its  hind  legs,  perilously  escaping  the 
head  of  the  smaller  combatant,  to  whom  it  yelled 
breathlessly : 

"Butt  me!  Butt  me  with  your  horns!  Butt 
harder,  or  I'll  kick  you!  Hee-haw  I  Hee-haw  I" 

To  which  the  smaller  beast  replied  with  a  wild 
"Ma-a-a-a!  Ma-a-a-a!"  and  a  head-on  crash  at 
anything  in  sight,  so  that  the  wicker  furniture 
flew  about  until  the  porch  resembled  the  reports 
of  a  successful  spiritualistic  seance  and  the  win 
dows  rattled  in  their  frames. 

Even  as  the  horrified  women  advanced  to  them, 
the  smaller  animal  staggered  toward  the  un 
guarded  guest  and  butted  furiously  at  her  knees; 
she  sank  down  with  a  shriek  and  an  utterly  un 
intentional  blow  at  the  larger  creature,  who  re 
sponded  with  a  bray  of  rage  and  an  only  too  well 
aimed  and  naturalistic  kick.  Susy,  in  a  dash  for 
rescue,  seized  the  Angora  beast  by  a  misleading 
white  stocking,  thus  bumping  its  nose  badly; 
it  bit  angrily  at  her  ankle,  and  her  agonized  cry 
brought  Tom  charging  into  the  group,  by  now 
almost  inextricably  entangled. 

85 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

A  few  horrid  seconds,  and  the  worst  was  over. 
Mrs.  Trayner  was  established  in  a  righted  arm 
chair,  flushed  and  palpitating,  one  hand  uncon 
sciously  holding  in  a  grip  of  iron  a  brown  rocking- 
horse  ear.  Susy  fled  for  tea  and  smelling-salts, 
leaving  her  sons,  crimson  with  heat  and  temper, 
entirely  at  their  father's  mercy.  And  history 
compels  the  statement  that  whatever  may  have 
been  Mrs.  Trayner's  professional  attitude  toward 
corporal  punishment,  she,  or  some  one  wonderfully 
like  her  in  appearance,  held  Thomas  Franklin 
Wilbour  in  a  rigid  embrace  until  such  time  as  his 
father  should  have  finished  giving  his  brother  the 
most  memorable  spanking  of  his  life  and  felt  him 
self  free  to  begin  on  his  youngest. 

It  would  have  ill  become  such  a  well-known 
friend  of  infancy  to  bear  malice,  and  Mrs.  Trayner 
assured  the  deprecating  parents  that  she  bore 
none;  but  they  could  not  but  observe  that  she 
declined,  firmly  though  politely,  Susy's  visit  of 
apology,  promised  on  the  not  -  yet  -  presentable 
brothers'  behalf. 

Poor  Susy  felt  very  badly  about  it  all,  though 
Tom's  wrath  had  been  dissipated  by  the  spank 
ing,  and  he  was  able  to  laugh  at  it  that  evening. 
But  their  situations  were  quite  reversed  on  the 
occasion  of  his  senior  partner's  visit. 

Mr.  Hartwell  was  a  somewhat  fat  and  fussy 
86 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

gentleman,  a  confirmed  city-dweller,  whose  idea 
of  the  country  is  best  described  by  the  picture  of 
a  wheeled  chair  on  a  board-walk.  But  he  had 
grown  quite  attached  to  his  clever  young  junior, 
was  genuinely  interested  in  the  two  spotty  dogs, 
which  he  seriously  believed  to  be  very  valuable, 
and  anxious  to  gratify  his  childless  wife  with  a 
day  of  children's  society.  The  visit  opened  ad 
mirably:  a  perfect  June  day  had  brought  out 
Susy's  peonies  and  early  roses ;  the  children  were 
quietly  napping  through  an  unexceptionable 
lunch — a  glut  of  new  peas  and  strawberries  and 
tender  lamb  chops;  there  was  neither  mud  nor 
dust,  either  of  which  would  have  ruined  Mrs. 
Hart  well's  day,  for  she  was  a  nervous,  immacu 
late  little  creature,  a  fanatic  housekeeper,  and 
hopelessly  in  thrall  to  germs  and  imaginary  in 
fections  of  every  sort — in  short,  the  Wilbour 
household  was  at  its  best. 

Susy  had  privately  wondered,  ever  since  the 
advent  of  Drabble  and  Lappy,  how  Mrs.  Hart- 
well  could  have  tolerated  them  for  a  moment, 
until  Tom  enlightened  her  with  the  information 
that  the  dogs  had  boarded  in  a  very  expensive 
stable  in  the  city,  and  been  subjected  to  unheard- 
of  disinfectings  and  bathings  before  they  were 
permitted  even  to  accompany  Mr.  Hartwell  in  his 
morning  constitutional  through  the  Park. 

87 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

That  gentleman,  serenely  enjoying  his  coffee, 
spoke  for  the  second  time  of  his  one-time  pets. 

"And  where  are  Happy  and  Dapple,  Wilbour?" 
he  inquired  genially.  "Dapple,  particularly,  was 
my  favorite,  though  Mrs.  Hartwell,  I  believe,  al 
ways  slightly  preferred  Happy." 

Susy  glanced  apprehensively  at  the  snowy  lengths 
of  solid  embroidery  and  lace  that  clothed  her  visitor. 

"The  dogs  are  not  quite  dry  —  I  have  just 
had  them  washed,"  she  replied,  a  little  uneasily. 
"Drab — Dapple  gets  into  rather  messy  places, 
sometimes,  and  Lap — Happy  springs  up  on  one, 
now  and  then.  Haven't  you  ever  noticed  it?" 

"He  never  sprang  up  on  me,"  Mrs.  Hartwell 
announced  firmly,  with  such  decision  that  Susy 
determined  that  the  lady's  husband  should  inter 
view  his  favorites  alone. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said  Mrs.  Hartwell,  "I  am 
much  more  interested,  myself,  in  your  dear  chil 
dren.  Are  we  not  to  see  them  before  we  go?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  mother  proudly, 
with  a  contented  consciousness  of  the  little  white 
embroidered  sailor  suits,  white  stockings,  and  new 
russet  slippers  that  lay  decorously  at  the  foot  of 
Bell's  bed. 

"Bell,  are  the  children  awake  yet?" 

"Y-yes,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  they're  awake,  but  I 
don't  seem  to  find  them,  somehow,"  Bell  an- 

88 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

swercd  guardedly.  ' '  Martin  said  something  about 
getting  his  bones,  and  never  came  back  from  the 
bath-room.  And  now  Thomas  has  gone,  too." 

' '  Getting  his  bones  ?  How  amusing  children 
are!"  Mrs.  Hartwell  exclaimed.  "I  suppose  they 
say  things  like  that  twenty  times  a  day,  and  you 
don't  know  what  they  mean." 

"Yes — no — I  suppose  so,"  Susy  responded 
vaguely.  Where  could  they  be  ? 

Even  as  she  spoke  a  sudden,  frightful  odor 
floated  into  the  dainty  drawing-room,  particularly 
fresh  and  sweet  to-day  in  recognition  of  Mrs. 
Hartwell's  known  standards.  This  odor  was  not 
entirely  novel;  rather  did  it  appear  to  be  com 
pounded  of  many  vaguely  familiar  but  always 
shunned  ingredients,  unconnected,  however,  with 
drawing-rooms.  Mrs.  Hartwell  sniffed  audibly; 
Susy  endeavored  not  to.  Then  a  succession  of 
stifled  giggles  was  heard,  the  door  moved  slowly, 
and  the  unspeakable  odor  became  suddenly  more 
pronounced.  At  this  point  Susy  should  have 
leaped  forward,  closed  the  door,  and  called  loudly 
upon  Bell,  and  no  one  was  quicker  to  acknowl 
edge  this,  afterward,  than  she.  But  we  have  all 
our  weak  moments,  our  Waterloos,  and  this  was 
undeniably  poor  Susy's.  She  sat  fascinated,  it 
seemed,  upon  her  neat  Chippendale  chair;  her 
lips  moved,  Tom  assured  her  later,  but  no  sound 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OF  A    BOY 

issued  from  them.  Tom,  who  had  an  unfortunate 
summer  cold,  smelled  nothing,  and  merely  smiled 
with  paternal  tolerance  at  the  childish  giggles. 

Now  a  snarling  yap,  more  giggles,  a  quick 
scuffle,  and  the  door  flew  fully  open.  Two  fright 
ful  little  objects,  reeking  with  filth  unmentionable, 
scrambled  on  hands  and  knees  into  the  room. 
They  were  clad  in  diminutive  pajamas,  whose 
original  tint  was  absolutely  unguessable,  so 
stained  and  dripping  with  every  sort  of  refuse 
were  they.  Between  the  teeth  of  each  was  held 
a  too  evidently  buried  bone  of  enormous  dimen 
sions,  and  as  they  shuffled  along  they  barked  and 
growled  with  wonderful  realism. 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

Self-preservation  is  ever  nature's  first  law,  and 
each  member  of  that  party  shrank  fearfully  aside, 
for  a  dazed  moment,  as  the  horrid,  crawling  ob 
jects  neared  them.  And  in  that  moment  the 
smaller  object  raised  itself,  with  a  whiff  of  drains 
and  stables,  and  chuckled, 

"Hello,  man!  I'm  Drabble.  Man  want  Drab- 
ble's  bone?"  and  threw  its  vile  bone  with  terrible 
accuracy  straight  onto  Mr.  Hartwell's  fresh,  light- 
gray  summer  suit. 

Tom  rushed  for  it,  but  paused  a  fatal  second, 
enough  for  the  other  unmentionable  creature  to 
rise,  barking,  and,  with  an  ecstatic  shriek, 

"I'm  Lappy!  Love  me!  Love  me!"  to  hurl 
itself  upon  the  shrinking  embroidery  of  Mrs. 
Hart  well. 

In  kindness  to  the  Wilbours  the  chronicler  can 
only,  in  the  language  of  the  early  novelists,  draw 
a  veil  over  what  followed.  Tom,  with  a  hasty 
glance  at  the  tongs,  abandoned  the  idea  and  de 
tached  his  loathsome  children  bravely  with  his 
hands. 

Susy,  at  Mrs.  Hartwell's  faint  request,  disrobed 
her  where  she  sat,  and  escorted  her  tremblingly 
to  the  bath-room,  where  she  used  a  bottle  of 
Listerine  and  half  a  tin  of  borax.  The  children 
were  partially  cleaned  in  the  stable,  and,  at  Mrs. 
Hartwell's  hysterical  request,  sprayed  there  with 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 


carbolic.  Everything  was  done  that  could  be 
done,  but  their  guests  evidently  felt,  with  Lady 
Macbeth,  that  it  would  take  more  than  the  per 
fumes  of  Araby  to  mitigate  the  occasion,  and  it 
required  all  Susy's  persuasive  powers  to  avoid  a 
solemn  promise  to  bury  the  white  embroidered 
dress. 

When  they  were  fairly  on  their  home  train 
poor  Susy's  overstrained  nerves  relaxed,  and 
she  burst  into  wild  laughter,  joined,  in  spite 
of  himself,  at  least,  by  her  exasperated  hus 
band. 

' '  Oh,  do  you  think  she  still  regrets  that  she  has 
no  little  ones?"  Susy  moaned. 
Tom  chuckled  wrathfully. 

"Probably  not,"  he  said;  "but  look  here,  all 

the  same,  Toots 
—this  can't  go 
any  further.  If 
this  is  all  Nature 
is  going  to  teach 
Binks,  then  he'd 
better  quit  and 
get  into  a  state 
of  grace  mighty 
quick !  This  is 
awful." 

' '  I  know,  Tom. 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Of  course,  I'm  sure  we'll  do  anything  you  say," 
she  agreed  meekly,  wiping  her  eyes;  "but  they're 
waiting  in  the  stable,  you  know.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?" 

And  two  perplexed  parents  stared  at  Fido. 


IV 


WHICH    DEALS    WITH    A   TIMELY    PROBLEM 

OOTS,"  Mr.  Thomas  Wilbour  be 
gan  abruptly,  helping  himself  to 
an  enormous  spoonful  of  orange 
marmalade,  and  spreading  it  over 
a  bit  of  heavily  buttered  toast  with 
the  leisurely  accuracy  possible  only  to  holiday 
breakfasts,  "have  you  noticed  anything  out  of 
the  way  lately  with  Aunt  Em?" 

"With  Aunt  Em?"  Susy  repeated  absent- 
mindedly,  dragging  her  youngest  son  dexterously 
out  from  the  coils  of  the  electric  table-bell,  which 
he  rang  furiously  with  every  motion  of  his  en 
tangled  feet  (a  disturbance  which  would  have 
softened  the  brain  of  any  ordinary  waitress,  but 

94 


THE    BIOGRAPNY    OF   A    BOY 

to  which  the  Wilbours'  servants  were  thoroughly 
accustomed).  "Why,  I  don't  think  so,  Tom.  She 
seemed  very  well  to  me. — Martin,  please  don't 
kick  your  chair  so  much,  and  you  know  very  well 
that  those  crusts  will  be  saved  for  your  dinner, 
so  you  might  as  well  eat  them  now!" 


"I'll  never  eat  none  of  them,"  said  Martin 
quietly,  but  very,  very  firmly.  "I'll  never  eat 
nothing,  if  it  has  to  be  them.  Thomas,  I'll  kick 
your  head  if  you  smell  my  boots  again," 

95 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

Susy  drew  a  long,  resigned  breath.  This  was 
to  be  one  of  Martin's  "days." 

"There's  no  use  arguing  with  him,  Tom,"  she 
interposed  hastily,  as  her  husband  gulped  his 
marmalade  down  with  a  portentous  expression ; 
"when  he  gets  to  a  certain  point  he  knows  what 
he'll  have  to  do,  and  he  doesn't  like  it  at  all.  So 
he'd  better  be  careful." 

Martin  made  no  reply  whatever,  but  ostenta 
tiously  cleaned  bits  of  bread  down  to  their  crusts 
and  piled  these  latter  in  the  shape  of  a  log-cabin 
by  his  plate. 

"Binks  no  eat  cushts,  naughty  Binks  go 
stwaighttobed,"  Thomas  murmured  tactfully, 
edging  with  good  generalship  out  of  his  brother's 
way,  but  slightly  miscalculating  the  reach  of  that 
avenger's  arm,  so  that  a  neat  nip  in  the  fleshy 
part  of  his  back  elicited  agonized  squeaks  from 
the  injudicious  commentator  and  destroyed  for 
the  moment  the  serenity  of  the  morning  meal. 

It  was  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  in  honor  of  the 
day  Myron  Plummer  had  early  suspended  the 
emblem  of  his  country  from  the  neat  white  flag 
pole  that  had  for  a  week  past  adorned  the  side- 
yards.  This  pole  was  masked  for  several  feet  of 
its  otherwise  bare  and  undecorative  surface  by 
a  fortunate  clump  of  syringas,  an  arrangement 
somewhat  ungratefully  insisted  upon  by  Mr.  Wil- 

96 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

hour  before  he  would  consent  to  accept  the  flag 
pole,  which  was  a  recent  gift  from  his  aunt,  and 
made  him  feel,  as  he  somewhat  enigmatically 
described  it,  like  a  German  dentist,  anyway,  but 
less  so  when  the  syringas  partly  covered  the  thing. 
Pressed  for  an  explanation,  he  had  admitted  that 
a  German  dentist  who  had  lived  near  him  in  boy 
hood  had  owned  and  frequently  used  a  flagpole, 
and  that  he  objected  to  the  resemblance,  but 
as  the  position  was  somewhat  untenable,  he  had 
finally  admitted  its  inherent  weakness,  and  had 
even,  at  Aunt  Emma's  insistence,  purchased  a 
flag  of  proportionate  size  to  attach  to  her  gift. 

"After  all,"  Aunt  Emma  had  urged,  "the  chil 
dren  are  Americans,  and  as  the  public  schools  are 
the  only  place  where  patriotism  is  taught,  and 
they  aren't  to  go  to  them,  they  ought  to  learn 
it  at  home.  And  the  first  step  is  a  flag." 

So,  as  has  been  said,  the  banner  of  his  country 
floated  like  a  mammoth  peppermint-stick  in  the 
breeze  when  Martin  and  his  brother  sallied  forth 
to  take  the  air  after  the  somewhat  tempestuous 
scene  which  closed  his  breakfast  and  threatened 
at  one  moment  to  banish  his  modest  bundle  of 
fire-crackers  from  the  programme  of  the  day.  To 
any  collection  of  adults  unaccustomed  to  the  con 
stant  presence  of  a  pair  of  youths  of  six  and  two 
years  respectively,  the  scene  of  the  breakfast, 

97 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OT  A    BOY 

whose  harrowing  details  have  been,  in  the  in 
terests  of  domesticity,  repressed,  would  undoubt 
edly  have  spelled  nervous  headache  and  an  acute 
attack  of  pessimism  at  the  very  least ;  but  to  the 
Wilbours  it  was  but  as  the  merest  ripple  on  the 
surface  of  family  life,  and  passed  as  such,  with 
little  comment. 

Tom  took  another  cup  of  coffee  on  the  strength 
of  the  interruption,  and  resumed  his  previous  topic 
with  the  ease  which  only  long  practice  in  this  art 
could  have  given  him. 

"About  Aunt  Em,"  he  began — "is  it  only  my 
idea,  or  isn't  she  just  a  little — er — well,  just  a 
little  ..." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Tom?"  Susy  was 
honestly  quite  ignorant  of  whatever  fine  shades  of 
meaning  her  husband  had  intended  to  convey, 
and  he  was  forced  to  speak  more  plainly. 

"I  can't  exactly  think  of  the  word  I  want," 
he  began  again;  but  at  this  simple  statement 
Susy  gasped  irrepressibly : 

"Goodness!  If  you  can't  think  of  it,  Tommy, 
who  in  the  world  can  ?" 

Passing  by  this  apparent  tribute  to  his  mental 
powers  with  an  airy  wave  of  the  hand,  Mr.  Wil- 
bour  continued: 

"Maybe  it's  only  me  she  favors,  but  I  give  you 
my  word,  Toots,  I  haven't  opened  my  mouth  for 

98 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

the  last  week  that  I  haven't  been — been,  well, 
been  sat  on,  you  know!" 

Susy  scowled  thoughtfully. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  noticed  it?" 
he  demanded. 

"Why,  now  that  you  speak  of  it,  I  remember 
that  you  have  been  rather  argument— 

"Arguments!"  Tom  interrupted.  "I  believe 
you!  Heavens  above,  how  can  I  help  it,  when  she 
talks  such  nonsense  ?  Am  I  or  am  I  not  supposed 
to  know  whether  or  not  a  married  woman  can 
control  her  property  in  this  State?" 

"Oh,  well,  what  does  it  matter?"  said  his  wife 
philosophically.  "I  don't  know  how  on  earth 
we  got  into  the  subject,  anyhow." 

"That's  it— that's  just  it!"  Tom  leaned  tow 
ard  her  dramatically,  rolling  his  after-breakfast 
cigarette  with  the  air  of  a  conspirator.  "Don't 
you  observe  that  we're  always  getting  into  those 
subjects  ?  Three  or  four  days  ago,  what  were  we 
scrapping  over  ?  Oh,  I  know  —  child  labor.  I 
got  it,  hot  and  heavy,  just  because  I  said — and 
very  properly — that  there  were  two  sides  to  that 
question,  and  that  a  great  many  ignorant  people 
were  going  to  get  themselves  into  a  fine  box  if 
they  went  around  ventilating  their  half-baked  ideas 
about  it  without  realizing  what  they  were  getting 
at  in  the  end  with  their  crazy,  'sweeping  reforms.' " 

99 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Well,  I  know;  but  why  will  you  talk  about 
those  sort  of  things,  Tom?"  And  Susy  glanced 
out  of  the  window  and  jumped  nervously  as  the 
first  explosive  bang  assured  the  neighborhood 
that  the  Independence  of  America  was  forever 
memorialized  in  one  faithful  patriot's  heart. 

"I  talk  about  them? — I?"  Tom  swelled  with 
disgust.  "What  should  I  talk  about  'em  for? 
I  tell  you  it's  Aunt  Em.  Toots,  she's  got  some 
thing  up  her  sleeve!  She's  at  it  again — you 
mark  my  words.  That's  why  she's  always  roping 
me  into  some — 

Bang!     Bang!!     Bang!!! 

A  frantic  wail  from  Thomas  and  abnormal  si 
lence  on  his  brother's  part  struck  terror  to  their 
hearts,  and  they  raced  out  to  the  flagpole  to  meet, 
after  all,  a  reassuring  tranquillity,  as  the  bangs 
turned  out  to  have  been  merely  three  unusually 
successful  celebrations  of  the  day,  and  Thomas's 
wail  nothing  more  than  his  ingenuous  protests 
against  the  fate  that  confined  him  to  paper  tor 
pedoes,  which  but  feebly  expressed,  it  would 
seem,  the  patriotic  emotions  that  stirred  his 
youthful  breast. 

They  sat  down  comfortably  under  the  syringas, 
and  Tom,  after  a  few  reminiscent  whiffs  of  the 
burning  powder,  yielded,  like  the  war-horse,  to 
its  seductions,  and  touched  off  a  few  of  the  fire- 

100 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

crackers,  to  the  great  delight  of  his  heirs.  Aunt 
Emma,  who  scorned  late  breakfasts,  having  taken 
that  meal,  as  she  succinctly  put  it,  for  considerably 
over  half  a  century  at  half-past  seven,  now  joined 
them,  crackling  in  a  speckled  black-and-white 
morning  dress,  and  commented  favorably  on  the  ef 
fect  of  the  flag  and  its  undoubted  educative  results. 

"And  though  I  understand,  of  course,  Susy, 
your  objections  to  those  rough  boys  in  the  public 
school,  and  the  horrid  things  Martin  would  un 
doubtedly  learn  there,  still  I  must  say  that  the 
system  is  most  excellent,  and  it  is  so  beautiful  to 
see  them  all  stand  up  and  do  that  about  my  God, 
my  Home,  and  my  Flag!" 

"What  do  they  do  when  they  stand  up?"  Tom 
inquired  lazily,  jerking  his  youngest  back  sudden 
ly  from  a  too-intimately  conducted  analysis  of 
that  species  of  pyrotechnic  known  as  a  "sisser," 
an  effect  which  the  chief  operator  produces  by 
the  simple  process  of  bending  a  fire-cracker  in  the 
middle  and  applying  a  light  to  the  exposed  and 
bursting  powder,  with  the  pleasing  result  and  al 
most  as  pleasing  uncertainty  as  to  where  the  object 
will  jump,  which  might  be  expected  from  the 
method  employed. 

"Why,  they  all  rise,"  Aunt  Emma  explained, 
herself  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  "and  point 
upward — like  this — when  they  say  'my  God'; 

IOI 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

then,  then — well,  really  now,  I  can't  remember 
where  they  do  point  for  'my  Home';  they  can't 
all  point  in  different  directions  very  well,  now, 
can  they?  It  wouldn't  be  orderly — " 

"And  then  people  move  so  often,  too,"  Susy 
added  absent-mindedly. 

Tom  gazed  with  interest  at  Aunt  Emma's  sus 
pended  gestures,  and  suggested: 

"Perhaps  they  put  their  hands  on  their  hearts 
—you  know  'home  is  where  the  heart  is'!" 

"Well,  anyway,"  Miss  Wilbour  resumed,  "when 
it's  'my  Flag'  they  kiss  their  hands  all  together 
to  the  flag  over  Washington's  picture,  and  it 
really  brings  tears  to  your  eyes,  Tom,  to  see  all 
those  little  Jewish  and  Irish  and  Italian  children 
so  patriotic!" 

"Urn,"  said  her  nephew  thoughtfully,  "I  don't 
doubt  it  would  have  brought  tears  to  Washing 
ton's,  Aunt  Emma.  But  if  you  approve  of  it  so 
highly,  why  not  teach  it  to  the  kiddies  ?  At  least, 
they'd  know  where  to  point  for  'my  Home,' 
wouldn't  you,  boys?" 

"That's  a  very  good  idea,  Tom  and  Susy," 
Aunt  Emma  cried  enthusiastically,  "and  it  would 
make  a  nice  little  ceremony  for  the  day,  too. 
Now,  just  come  over  here  for  a  moment,  Thomas, 
dear,  and  stand  by  Martin,  so;  stand  up  straight 
and  hold  your  heads  up— 

IO2 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OP   A    BOY 

"I  have  to  tie  m'  shoe,"  Martin  grumbled  sus 
piciously;  "let  Thomas  do  it." 

"Now,  Binks,  dear,  don't  be  disagreeable," 
Susy  interposed,  "and  don't  begin  to  make  ob 
jections  before  you  know  what  it  is  Aunt  Emma 
wants  you  to  do,  even." 

"I  don't  care  what  it  is — I  don't  want  to  do  it," 
said  Binks  flatly;  "I'm  too  big  to  kiss  my  hand. 
I'm  six  and  a  half." 

"Stand  up  here,  sir,"  Tom  commanded  short 
ly,  and  Martin  hurriedly  assumed  a  lop-sided  and 
unconvincing  pose  next  his  brother,  who  braced 
himself  for  the  coming  ordeal  by  stepping  firmly 
upon  one  foot  with  the  other,  thus  throwing  him 
self  forcibly  upon  the  ground  and  requiring  to  be 
untwisted  before  he  could  arise  with  any  degree 
of  success. 

"Now,"  said  Aunt  Emma,  "we  all  say  'my 
God'  together—" 

"Mother  won't  let  me,"  Martin  interrupted 
doggedly. 

"Won't  let  you?  What  do  you  mean,  dear?" 
Susy  asked  anxiously,  her  maternal  imagination 
requiring  no  aid  in  prophesying  a  strained  and 
unfortunate  morning  if  things  took  no  turn  for 
the  better. 

"That  new  Mary  that  cooks  the  things  in  the 
kitchen  says  'my  God'  all  the  time,  and  when  I 

103 


THE    BIOGRAPHY   OF   A    BOY 

said,  'My  God,  Thomas,  you've  lost  your  rubber,' 
you  said  if  I  said  it  again  you'd  speak  to  my 
father,  and  so  I  can't,"  he  explained  in  injured 
tones. 

Tom  turned  his  head,  after  the  simple  formula 
in  vogue  among  adults  when  they  wish  to  conceal 
inconvenient  emotions  from  eyes  sharper  than  the 
average  squirrel's,  but  Susy  was  too  involved  in 
explanation  to  find  time  for  mirth,  and  hastened 
valiantly  into  the  awkward  discussion. 

"No,  no,  dear,  you  don't  understand.  You 
mustn't  say  it  about  Thomas's  rubber,  but  this 
is  different.  This  is  a — a  sort  of  a  little  speech — 
an  address— 

"Whose  dress?" 

' '  Oh,  'dear !  Aunt  Emma,  if  you  want  the  chil 
dren  to  say  it,  I  really  think  you  might  ex 
plain  it!" 

"You  are  looking  up  into  heaven,  Martin— and 
Thomas,"  Aunt  Emma  began,  "and  so  it  is  per 
fectly  proper  to  say  'my  God.'  It's  not  at 
all  the  way  Mary  says  it.  I'm  sure  you  know 
why." 

"Yes,"  Martin  interrupted  eagerly,  with  the 
first  evidence  of  interest  he  had  yet  showrn,  "I 
do,  Aunt  Emma." 

"I  thought  so,  dear,"  said  she,  with  an  irresist 
ible  glance  of  triumph  at  the  child's  parents— 

104 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

that  concentrated  essence  of  inquiry,  peculiar  to 
the  unmarried,  as  to  why  Providence  has  seen 
fit  to  implant  in  their  breasts  alone  that  exclusive 
comprehension  of  infancy  so  often  displayed  by 
them.  "Tell  me  why  it  is  different." 

"Because,"  Binks  returned  importantly,  as 
suming  a  Daniel  Webster  attitude,  "you  say  'my 
Godd,'  and  Mary  says  'my  Gawd'!" 

Again  Tom  turned  his  head,  and  this  time  Susy 
sided  openly  with  him,  and  Aunt  Emma  looked 
the  pain  and  disillusionment  reserved  for  those 
who  grapple  with  the  youthful  mind. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  if  we  don't  get  at  it,  it  will 
never  be  done,"  she  recovered  herself  briskly, 
"and  so  don't  let  us  argue  any  more,  children, 
but  do  it,  if  we're  going  to." 

"I  will  if  mother  will,"  Martin  bargained  shame 
lessly,  noting  his  mother's  relaxed  air  and  sure  of 
his  ground. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  Susy  returned  promptly, 
"we  all  will — father,  too.  Come  on,  Tom — get 
up!" 

Somewhat  unwillingly,  but  alive  to  the  re 
sponsibilities  of  his  example,  Mr.  Wilbour  arose 
languidly  and  lined  up  with  the  other  four 
on  the  edge  of  the  little  slope  behind  the  flag 
staff. 

"Now,"  Aunt  Emma  began  approvingly,  "all 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 


together,  looking  up — look  at  the  sky,  Thomas, 
dear — now!" 

And  from  the  throats  of  the  united  Wilbour 
family  rang  such  an  unexpected  and  thrilling 
shout  as  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  any 
stage-manager  of  Bowery  melodrama. 

"My  God!"  they  cried,  then  ceased  abruptly, 
106 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

for  the  extraordinary  and  undreamed  of  effect  of 
the  exclamation  proved  altogether  too  much  for 
two  of  the  performers,  and  Tom  and  Susy  stag 
gered  back,  weak  with  laughter,  and  literally 
rolled  down  the  little  slope,  in  which  manoeuvre 
their  sons  enthusiastically  joined,  leaving  Aunt 
Emma,  a  disgusted  Goddess  of  Liberty,  alone  be 
neath  the  flag-staff. 

When  they  had  picked  themselves  up  and 
climbed,  still  giggling  hysterically,  to  the  seat  of 
the  experiment  in  applied  patriotism,  Miss  Wil- 
bour  had  composed  herself,  and  was  engaged  in 
the  morning  paper,  which  she  had  brought  out 
with  her.  Susy  would  have  glided  over  the  in 
cident  with  the  placidity  known  only  to  the 
mothers  of  boys,  but  Tom  could  not  resist  the 
opportunity  of  a  final  shot,  and  observed,  as  he 
settled  himself  beside  her : 

''You  see,  Aunt  Em,  it's  all  because  we're 
not  Jews  or  Italians.  I'm  sure  we  could  have 
pulled  it  off  if  we'd  been  even  as  nationally 
inclined  as  the  Irish,  perhaps  —  but  it's  the 
stern  repression  of  the  Anglo  -  Saxon  nature 
that—" 

"Anglo-Saxon  grandmother!"  Aunt  Emma  in 
terrupted  briefly;  "it's  all  very  well  to  joke,  Tom, 
but  there  won't  be  any  Americans — in  spirit — if 
this  keeps  up,  I  can  tell  you." 

107 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OP  A    BOY 

"Good  Heavens,  Aunt  Em,  what  do  you  mean? 
If  we  keep  on  rolling  down  hill  ?" 

"Miss  Shaughnessy  says  that  the  —  the  other 
Americans  are  just  as  easy  to  train  into  it  as  the 
Irish,  if  you  take  them  young  enough,  but  that 
the  older  ones  act  foolish  about  it — just  like  you 
and  Susy." 

"The  'other  Americans'  is  good,  anyhow,"  Tom 
commented.  "Who's  Miss  Shaughnessy — not  one 
of  the  'others,'  I  take  it?" 

"She's  the  principal  of  the  public  school," 
said  Aunt  Emma,  with  a  curious  decision  of  man 
ner,  "and  a  very  fine  woman." 

"Well,  well,"  observed  her  nephew,  "since  when 
have  you  been  so  interested  in  the  public  schools, 
Aunt  Em  ?  I  didn't  know  women  could  be  prin 
cipals,  anyway — I  thought  they  had  to  be  men." 

"I  don't  doubt  you  did,"  replied  Aunt  Emma 
with  a  certain  asperity,  "but  you  were  mistaken, 
you  see.  Women  are  not  entirely  helpless,  even 
in  this  country." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  I  should  think  not!"  Tom 
declared  in  amazement.  ' ' '  Even  in  this  country ' ! 
Good  Lord!  If  you  can  show  me  any  country 
where  they're  less  helpless— 

"Finland,"  Aunt  Emma  articulated  abruptly, 
causing  her  niece  and  nephew  to  stare  at  her  in 
empty  surprise. 

108 


THB    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Finland!  Why,  Aunt  Emma,  what  do  you 
mean?"  Susy  cried.  "Do  you  mean  the  Finland 
that  the  Sears's  waitress  came  from?" 

"I  do,"  said  Aunt  Emma  firmly,  "though  that 
is  a  curious  method  of  describing  a  country, 
Susy." 

"Well,  but — but  what  do  the  women  do  there  ?" 
Tom  inquired  vaguely,  touching  the  short  fuse  of 
a  fire-cracker  with  a  bit  of  the  brown,  pungent 
light-stick  known  to  youthful  patriots  as  "punk," 
and  tossing  the  cracker  cleverly  so  that  it  ex 
ploded  in  mid-air,  to  the  delighted  admiration  of 
his  sons. 

"Did  you  ask  me  what  they  did  in  Finland?" 
Aunt  Emma  repeated,  with  a  curious  determina 
tion  in  her  manner,  as  the  tumult  and  the  shout 
ing  (to  use  the  words  of  a  modern  bard)  died. 

"Why,  yes,"  Tom  returned  carelessly — "yes, 
Aunt  Em,  since  we  appear  to  be  conducting  this 
conversation  on  the  lines  of  a  nigger  -  minstrel 
show — yes,  Brother  Bones,  I  do  ask  you,  What  do 
the  women  do  in  Finland?" 

"They  vote,"  said  Aunt  Emma  shortly. 

Tom  dropped  the  punk  from  a  relaxed  hand, 
and  it  burned,  slowly  and  silently,  but  surely, 
through  his  gray  flannel  trousers.  Not  till  the 
scorching  heat  stung  his  actual  person  did  he 
develop  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  push  it 
8  109 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

off,  and  even  the  round,  smoking  hole  in  the  light 
fabric  elicited  only  a  casual  murmur  from  Susy, 
so  utterly  taken  aback  were  the  Wilbours  by  this 
brief  announcement  of  their  relative. 

The  unusual  silence  impressed  even  the  chil 
dren,  who  turned  inquiring  faces  toward  their 
elders,  and  Martin  asked  curiously: 

"How  do  they  vote,  Aunt  Emma?" 

"With   ballots,"    said   Miss   Wilbour   firmly- 
"with  ballots,  Martin.     As  you  will  see  some  day," 
she  added  with  a  concealed  meaning  of  some  sort, 
evidently,  all  the  more  dreadful  because  no  one 
knew  just  what  meaning  it  concealed. 

"Ballads?"  Martin  repeated.  "Like  —  like 
'  Young  Lockervar  has  come  out  in  the  West '  ? 
I  like  those.  Does  the  Sears's  waitress  know  that 
one?" 

"The  two  are  very  much  alike,"  said  Tom, 
catching  his  breath  at  last — -"at  least  somebody 
or  other  once  said  he  didn't  care  who  cast  one 
if  he  could  get  royalties  on  the  other,  I  believe." 

"But  as  he  was  a  man,  there  was  nothing  to 
prevent  him  from  doing  both,"  said  Aunt  Emma 
quickly. 

Tom  looked  at  her  and  shook  his  head  sadly 
once  or  twice.  Then  he  took  a  cigarette  from 
his  pocket,  tapped  the  end  slightly,  lit  it,  and 
puffed  out  a  full  breath. 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"So  that  was  it  all  the  time!"  he  said  reproach 
fully.  ' '  Oh,  Aunt  Em !  Aunt  Em !  Married  wom 
en's  property,  indeed !  Child  labor,  forsooth ! 
And  I  never  once  suspected!  Do  you  want  my 
vote,  woman?  Take  it,  take  it!  It  never  did 
anything  yet  but  keep  me  from  winning  a  silver 
cup  on  Election  Day." 

Aunt  Emma  nodded  sadly,  and  yet  as  one  who 
takes  a  certain  pride  in  seeing  her  deepest  con 
victions  fulfilled. 

"Just  what  Miss  Shaughnessy  says!"  she 
mourned.  "The  sex  that  puts  a  paltry  game 
of  golf  before  its  country's  welfare  is  the  sex 
that  stands  selfishly  in  the  way  of — in  the  way 
of—" 

"The  only  other  sex  there  is,"  her  nephew  fin 
ished  helpfully.  "Go  on,  Aunt  Em,  get  it  out  of 
your  system  and  don't  mind  me!  Is  this  part  of 
the  public  -  school  instruction  ?  When  did  you 
begin  to  feel  this  way?  I  believe  you're  planning 
to  be  mayor  before  you  die — they  always  get  in 
with  the  schools." 

"Not  at  all,  Tom,  not  at  all,"  she  replied  eager 
ly,  "that's  just  what  the  better  class  of  women 
don't  want.  We  don't  want  to  hold  any  office- 
it's  only  to  vote." 

"The  more  fools  you,"  her  nephew  remarked 
impolitely.  "Why  not  draw  the  salary  while 

in 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

you're  about  it?  And  incidentally,  dear  aunt, 
keep  your  eye  on  anybody  of  the  name  of  Shaugh- 
nessy  when  it  comes  to  office-holding,  and  watch 
'em  get  away  with  it!  There's  no  one,  short  of  a 
Reilly,  to  beat  'em!  I'll  bet  you  your  friend  the 
principal  knows  the  proper  length  of  a  mayor's 
train  this  minute,  and  whether  plaids  or  stripes 
will  be  most  worn." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  make  fun,  Tom,"  Aunt 
Emma  persisted,  "but  making  fun  is  not  arguing, 
and  can't  be  accepted  as  such  any  longer.  As 
the  Reverend  Byram  Boskowitz  told  us  at  the 
Normal  Luncheon  last  week— 

"The  Normal  Luncheon!"  Susy  cried.  "Was 
that  where  you  were  the  day  you  missed  the 
4.20?  What  on  earth  is  a  normal  luncheon?" 

"It  is  a  luncheon  of  all  the  alumnae  of  the  Nor 
mal  Training  School  for  Teachers,"  Miss  Wilbour 
informed  them  quickly,  transparently  delighted 
to  have  relieved  her  open  mind  of  such  unnatural 
secrecy,  "and  there  were  over  a  hundred  of  them 
there.  Miss  Shaughnessy  gave  me  a  ticket  for 
the  speeches,  afterward.  She  was  toast-mistress. 
And  you  ought  to  have  heard  Doctor  Boskowitz, 
Tom;  he  was  wonderfully  interesting — and  he 
certainly  is  masculine  enough  for  anybody,"  she 
added  conclusively. 

"Really!"  said  Tom  with  what   any  one  but 

112 


THB    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

Aunt  Emma  would  have  regarded  as  suspicious 
interest.  "Can't  you  give  us  some  of  his  mascu 
line  ideas?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  Tom,"  she  answered  with  pleas 
ure;  "they're  here  in  this  paper;  I  saved  it 
especially." 

And,  assuming  her  glasses,  the  good  woman 
read,  with  the  impressive  monotony  dedicated 
to  newspaper  interpretation,  the  following  se 
lection  : 

"Dr.  Byram  Boskowitz  charges  the  Alumna  of 
the  X—  —  Normal  Training  School  with  favoring 
the  harem  idea  of  women — not  to  the  full  Oriental 
limit,  biit  in  the  sense  of  a  confined,  restricted  life. 

"And  that  was  rather  startling,  Tom  and 
Susy,"  she  interpolated,  looking  mildly  at  them 
over  her  glasses,  "but  you  will  see  he  makes  it 
even  stronger. 

' '  Your  harem  of  the  United  States  may  be  a  lit 
tle  larger  than  the  Mohammedan  woman's,"  he  told 
them,  "but  your  'sphere'  is  not  a  sphere — it  is  not 
a  hemisphere;  it  is  only  a  segment." 

"Well,  well!"  said  Tom  with  increasing  interest, 
"isn't  he  the  startling  old  bird,  though?  Only 
a  segment,  eh  ?  What  did  the  Shaughnessy  think 
of  that?" 

' '  /  know  you  are  all  devoted  to  your  wash-tubs  and 
your  children,"  Aunt  Emma  read  on  hastily,  "but 

"5 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

the  question  is  whether  these  should  absorb  your 
vitality." 

"Hold  on!"  Tom  interrupted  at  this;  "didn't 
you  say  this  luncheon  was  in  New  York  ?  Wasn't 
the  Reverend  Byram  just  a  little,  just  a  little, 
teeny,  weeny— 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  Miss  Wilbour  honestly,  "as 
Miss  Shaughnessy  said  afterward,  that  was  the 
only  weak  point  he  made." 

"Ah!"  (her  nephew  eyed  her  closely)  "not  so 
many  wash-tubs,  perhaps  ..." 

"Well,  you  see,  Tom,  they  were  all  teachers 
but  eleven — they  married  superintendents  of 
schools — and  only  six  of  them  had  any  children. 
So,  so — well,  that  part  didn't  apply  so  much." 

"No,  I  can  see  that,"  her  nephew  replied  readily 
enough.  "So  that  was  his  only  weak  point,  was 
it  ?  I  should  say  that  was  rather  a  good  thing, 
Aunt  Em,  for  many  points  like  that  would  be 
likely  to  swamp  the  lecture,  don't  you  think? 
Well,  go  on.  Did  he  add  any  more  little 
gems?" 

' '  Surely  no  woman  should  be  satisfied  to  be  merely 
the  mother  of  a  family,"  Aunt  Emma  continued, 
stopping  involuntarily  at  his  chuckling. 

"Dear  me,  no  indeed,"  he  interrupted  hastily; 
"in  the  circumstances,  I  must  say,  dear  aunt,  I 
should  think  the  majority  of  the  normal  alumnae 

116 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

-  the  very  normal  alumna?  —  would  have  been 
highly  dissatisfied !" 

"Tommy,"  Mrs.  Wilhour  warned  him,  "don't 
be  absurd!" 

"Absurd! — I?"  Tom  looked  highly  virtuous. 
"With  the  Reverend  Boskowitz  on  deck?  Toots, 
you  wrong  me!" 

"I — I  don't  think  there's  any  more,"  Aunt 
Emma  began  somewhat  unconvincingly,  but  her 
nephew  snatched  the  paper  with  a  quick  move 
ment  from  her  hand,  and  defending  himself  easily 
against  her  feeble  attempts,  read  with  great  relish 
the  peroration  of  the  lecture. 

' '  /  would  invite  you  to  become  dangerous  women 
(for  Heaven's  sake,  Aunt  Em!) — did  you  hear  that 
at  some  recent  foregathering  of  females  (females  is 
good  —  perhaps  they  weren't  Normal)  a  woman 
from  Boston  warned  her  hearers  against  certain 
women  who  try  to  improve  social  conditions  as 
'dangerous  women'  (look  out  for  Miss  Shaugh- 
nessy,  Aunt  Em!)  ? — I  would  have  you  become  dan 
gerous  women  (I  take  it  back,  Aunt  Em,  you 
needn't  look  out  for  her  at  all!)  :  dangerous  to 
hoary,  senile  injustice,  antiquated  civics,  supersti 
tion,  disease." 

Mr.  Wilbour  handed  the  folded  paper  cere 
moniously  back  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I'm  no  palmist,  dear  aunt,"  he  said  at  last, 
117 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"but  I  would  guarantee  to  give  the  Reverend 
By  ram  a  reading  free,  and  urge  him  to  look  out  for 
a  tall,  strong  woman  resembling  a  trained  nurse, 
because  if  he  ever  meets  one,  it's  all  up  with  him, 
if  she  has  a  straight-jacket  with  her.  I  can  see 
a  large  building  like  an  institution,  right  from 
here,  looming  up  in  his  life." 

"Of  course,  Tom,  you  can  take  all  these  things 
the  wrong  way,"  Aunt  Emma  began. 

"If  you  mean  Boskowitz,  I  wouldn't  take  him 
any  way,"  said  Tom  decidedly— -"not  as  a  gift. 
And  I  must  say,  Aunt  Em,  that  if  he  has  a  vote, 
you  might  as  well  have  five." 

"Perhaps  the  address  wasn't  quite  so  suitable 
for  just  those  women— 

"Will  you  tell  me  any  women  it  would  have 
been  suitable  for?  Lord!  Harems  and  wash- 
tubs  and  mothers  of  families  to  a  pack  of  normal 
school-teachers!  Although,"  Mr.  Wilbour  added 
thoughtfully,  "what  d'  you  suppose  he'd  have  said 
to  Abnormal  ones  ?  It  makes  my  head  swim!" 

"Did  you  know,"  Aunt  Emma  observed  some 
what  irrelevantly,  "that  women  commit  only  one- 
fifth  as  many  crimes  as  men?" 

Her  nephew  stared  uncomprehendingly  at  her. 

"That  is  taken  from  statistics,"  she  continued 
triumphantly,  "collected  by — oh,  by  somebody 
important,  and  so,  as  that  Doctor — you  remember 

118 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

that  Englishman  that  spoke  over  here  and  said 
he  was  so  surprised  that  the  American  woman 
should  be  behind  Russians  and  Bohemians — as 
he  said,  women  would  lift  politics  out  of  the  slime. 
He  made  that,  at  least,  very  clear." 

Tom  still  gazed  at  her  dumbly,  but  here,  to 
the  surprise  of  both,  Susy,  who  was  holding 
Thomas,  now  grown  sleepy  with  excitement  and 
heat,  entered  the  political  arena. 

"I  think  it's  awfully  silly,  Aunt  Emma,"  she 
said,  "to  worry  about  all  that  when,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  most  women  don't  want  to  vote  anyhow. 
It's  just  as  that  nice  old  Doctor  What's-his-name 
says:  if  they  wanted  to,  of  course  they  would, 
but  they  don't.  I  don't  know  a  single  one  that 
does  except  Minnie  Sears,  and  she  says  it  would 
be  very  repugnant  to  her  feelings  to  ride  in  that 
smelly  old  coupe  they  send  'round  for  voters  in 
Laurelmere,  but  still  she  would  do  it  for  Dorothy's 
sake." 

"Suffering  Satan!"  Tom  cried,  "how  would  it 
help  Dorothy  ?" 

"Oh,  that  about  the  slime  that  Aunt  Emma 
said,  I  suppose,"  Susy  returned  vaguely,  "but 
then  Minnie  would  do  anything  if  it  was  dis 
agreeable  enough." 

Aunt  Emma  began  fumbling  in  the  capacious 
pocket  that  dignified  all  her  dresses,  and  pro- 

119 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

duced,  to  the  complete  mental  rout  of  her  niece 
and  nephew,  a  small  red  blank  -  book.  To  be 
more  exact,  it  had  once  been  blank,  but  was  now 
nearly  filled  with  notes  on  the  various  lectures 
she  had  attended  during  Martin's  infancy,  at 
which  period  she  had  eagerly  collected  every 
available  theory  of  child  culture,  to  the  mingled 
alarm  and  amusement  of  the  young  Wilbours. 
They  had  not  seen  this  book  since  long  before  she 
left  them,  nearly  two  years  ago  now,  to  join 
domestic  forces  with  a  favorite  cousin  of  her  own 
age,  and  with  sudden  memories  of  those  days, 
that  seemed  so  long  past,  when  boyish  Martin  was 
babyish  Binks  and  Thomas  was  not  at  all,  moved 
them  to  join  hands  quickly,  half  with  tears,  half 
with  laughter.  Binks,  who  would  not  talk,  and, 
when  at  last  he  would,  talked  unquotably ;  Binks, 
who  would  not  walk  until  tied  into  a  humiliat 
ing  creeping  -  bag ;  Binks,  who  bore  so  patiently 
enough  psychological  experiments  to  have  per 
manently  stunted  the  growth  of  a  less-determined 
infant — all  this  the  red  book  brought  up  to  them, 
and  they  glanced  wonderingly  with  one  accord 
at  the  trousered  citizen  now  searching  hopefully 
among  the  burned-out  fire-crackers  for  one  possi 
ble  treasure,  his  hat  cocked  over  one  ear,  his  hands 
in  his  bulging  pockets,  and — yes,  an  actual  whistle 
on  his  lips ! 

1 20 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Aunt  Emma's  voice  woke  them  as  from  a 
dream. 

"It  is  just  there,  Susy,  that  the  most  impor 
tant  point  of  all  comes  in,"  she  cried  triumphant 
ly.  "Miss  Shaughnessy  cut  this  bit  out  of  a  great 
speech  —  it  was  in  the  Sun  —  and  bought  fifty 
copies  to  cut  from,  and  mailed  them  to  all  the 
women  —  the  uninterested  women  —  she  knew. 
She  said  if  that  didn't  stir  them,  nothing  would. 
Just  after  it  the  clipping  says  the  house  fairly 
shook  with  applause,  so  that  the  man  couldn't 
go  on  for  some  minutes — it  was  a  man,  you'll 
notice!  Listen  to  this: 

"As  for  the  assertion  that  women  did  not  want 
the  vote,  Abraham  Lincoln  had  said,  when  he  was 
told  that  the  negro  didn't  want  the  vote,  that  if  the 
negro  had  sunk  so  low  he  hugged  his  chains,  the 
hour  of  his  deliverance  had  struck. 

"Had  struck!"  Aunt  Emma  repeated  solemn 
ly.  "And  that  is  what  convinced  me,  Tom  and 
Susy.  I  suddenly  saw  that  I  was  just  like  that 
negro!  For  I  didn't  want  to  vote  then,"  she 
added  frankly — "that  is,  not  particularly." 

"Dear,  dear!"  Tom  murmured,  "is  it  as  bad  as 
that  ?  Well,  that  certainly  is  a  smasher.  That 
ends  it,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I'm  all  in.  All 
I  can  say  is,  when  you  are  President,  don't  forget 
that  here's  a  likely  young  Attorney-General,  will 

121 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 


you?  There's  a  good  fellow!  The 'only  other 
thing  I  can  think  of  in  this  connection  —  and 
Heaven  knows  it's  a  mere  bagatelle,  after  an  argu 
ment  like  that — I  hope,  I  do  earnestly  hope,  my 
dear  aunt,  that  your  use  of  the  vote  won't  resemble 

the    negro's  — 
after    his    hour 
had  struck!" 

"I  — I  don't 
think  I  know 
just  what  you 
mean,  Tom," 
Miss  Wilbour 
began  uncer 
tainly. 

"Of  course 
you  don't,"  he 
returned  cheer 
fully,  "neither 
does  the  man 
who  made  that 
speech,  w  hen 
the  house,  as 
the  Sun  so  pithily  puts  it,  fairly  shook — I  should 
think  it  might  have.  However,  why  should  you 
waste  your  vitality,  as  Friend  Boskowitz  said,  in 
understanding  it  ?  Don't  understand — just  vote. 
In  the  words  of  the  poet,  'Vote,  and  the  coon 

122 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

votes  with  you ;  think,  and  you  think  alone ' ! 
—It's  going  to  rain.  Get  up,  you  unnatural 
woman,"  he  turned  upon  Susy,  who  at  Thomas's 
request  was  making  a  collar  of  kisses  for  his  hot 
little  neck,  and  taking  great  pains  to  make  the 
kisses  join  neatly,  "it's  sickening  to  us  —  Miss 
Shaughnessy  and  Aunt  Em  and  me,  I  mean — to 
see  you  sitting  there,  dead  to  every  responsibil 
ity,  with  the  negro  sinking  and  striking  all  around 
you,  and  you  hugging  your  chains  like — like  any 
thing!" 

"Pooh!  I'm  not,"  said  Susy,  laughing  and  com 
pleting  the  collar  with  an  elaborately  constructed 
buckle  of  complicated  design,  which  entailed  an 
enormous  deal  of  kissing,  and  tickled  Thomas  so 
that  he  squealed  again,  "I'm  only  hugging  my 
baby!" 

"Toots,"  Tom  declared,  waving  his  hand  ora- 
torically  and  concealing  it  between  the  second 
and  third  button  of  his  coat,  "you  have  hit  it! 
In  your  benighted,  feeble-minded  fashion  you 
have  certainly  hit  it — it's  the  same  thing!" 

They  turned  to\vard  the  house,  laughing,  drag 
ging  Thomas  between  them,  and  Aunt  Emma 
stood  puzzled  beneath  the  flag-staff,  whose  ban 
ner  hung  languidly  now  in  the  dense  calm  that 
preceded  the  coming  thunder-storm.  A  few  slow 
drops  sprinkled  her  forehead  already,  and  she 

123 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

was  starting  to  follow  the  others  when  she  re 
membered  the  new  flag  and  turned  hastily  to 
lower  it.  Tugging  at  the  fastenings  with  nervous 
fingers — Aunt  Emma  detested  thunder — she  seem 
ed  only  to  knot  them  harder,  and  her  frantic  tug  at 
the  main  rope  appeared  to  have  no  effect  what 
ever.  She  put  her  whole  weight  on  the  rope: 
the  flag  did  not  move. 

"The  thing's  bewitched!"  she  cried  irritably. 
"Martin,  run  and  call  your  father  to  come  and 
take  in  the  flag  before  it  pours." 

"Can't  you  do  it,  Aunt  Emma?"  asked  Martin 
curiously. 

"No,  I  can't,"  she  said,  "it's  too  heavy.  Hurry 
and  call  your  father." 

"Why,  I'll  do  it  for  you,"  he  assured  her  toler 
antly;  "I  don't  need  to  call  father.  Didn't  you 
see  how  he  ran  her  up?"  And  his  little  brown 
fingers  hovered  over  the  knot. 

"Ran  it  up,"  she  corrected;  "a  flag  isn't  she, 
Martin." 

"That's  what  Myron  Plummer  says — run  her 
up,"  he  replied  placidly.  "You  were  pullin'  on 
the  wrong  rope.  It's  a  slip-knot." 

And  the  flag  began  to  descend,  easily  and 
steadily,  while  Miss  Wilbour  watched  it,  half 
chagrined,  half  amused. 

"Evidently  a  she  can't  take  it  down,  even  if 
124 


MAKING   A    COLLAR    OF     KISSES 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

it  is  she."  And  she  watched  him  slip  the  bright 
folds  loose  from  the  guy-rope. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  with  a  curious  effect  of 
his  father  in  his  gesture  and  voice,  "flags  is  men's 
work.  Father  and  I  '11  take  care  of  her." 

"Indeed,"  she  answered,  absurdly  nettled  by 
the  amazing  precision  with  which  he  wove  and 
wove  again  the  loose  ropes,  pursing  his  lips  in 
unconscious  imitation  of  Myron  Plummer,  and 
breathing  heavily  as  he  clumsily  but  with  a  cer 
tain  rough  effectiveness  folded  the  length  of  can 
vas  together  and  knotted  them  into  a  compact 
bundle  with  the  loose,  short  end  that  depended 
from  one  corner — "indeed!  But  I  wanted  this 
flag,  Master  Martin — neither  of  you  two  men,  I 
notice." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,"  he  said  absently, 
making  the  main  ropes  taut  about  the  lower 
brace  of  the  pole,  in  a  fever  of  impatience  to  effect 
a  triumphant  finish  before  Myron,  already  hasten 
ing  toward  them,  could  interfere — "that's  all 
right — you  can  want  'em.  We'll  put  'em  up  and 
take  'em  down,  though." 

"But  can't  I  do  anything  else,  Martin?"  she 
cried,  seizing  his  hand  and  hurrying  from  the 
scudding  drops.  "Won't  you  let  me  do  anything 
else  for  my  flag?" 

He  caught  instinctively  at  the  note  of  real 
9  127 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

seriousness  in   her   voice    and   did  his  best   for 
her. 

"Oh  yes,"  he   began,  "you  can — you  can — 
A  great  clap  of  thunder  drove  them  at  a  run  to 
shelter,  and,  with  a  sudden  memory  of  the  pa 
triotic  drill  of  an  hour  before,  he  concluded  has 
tily,  "You  can  point  to  her,  Aunt  Emma!" 


V 


WHICH    DEALS   WITH    ONE    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 

T'S  no  use,  Toots,"  said  Mr.  Wil- 
bour  firmly — "not  one  bit  of  use 
at  all.  I  can't  do  it." 

"You  mean  you  won't,"  Susy 
retorted  reproachfully.  "I  think 
it's  horrid  of  you — and  only  an  hour  and  a  half, 
too!" 

"But  what  an  hour  and  a  half!     My  dear  girl, 

it  depresses  me  for  the  day;  it  eats  up  my  whole 

morning;    it  spoils  my  lunch,  and  it's  the  only 

day  I  get  in  the  fresh  air — do  you  consider  that  ?" 

Susy  wavered. 

"Well,  of  course,  Tom,  it  does  seem  too  bad 
if  you  can't  get  the  air,"  she  admitted,  innocently 

1 29 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

oblivious  to  the  damp  March  wind  outside  and 
the  cheerful  arrangement  of  wood-fire,  pipe,  and 
Sherlock  Holmes  awaiting  the  master  of  the  house. 

"That's  what  I  told  Mr.  Wakeman,  and  he 
said  that  he  thoroughly  appreciated  all  that,  but 
he  couldn't  help  feeling  that  there  was  all  Sunday 
afternoon." 

"The  deuce  he  did!" 

Tom  glared  sardonically  at  the  absent  Mr. 
Wakeman. 

"Well,  you  can  tell  him  that  /  can't  help  feel 
ing  that  if  he  had  a  man's-size  job,  with  something 
else  to  do  but  trot  up  and  down  in  the  air  all  day, 
six  days  a  week,  if  he  wants  to,  getting  six  per 
cent,  discount  from  the  department  stores  just 
because  his  collar  buttons  in  the  back — 

"Tom!" 

"You  told  me  that  yourself." 

"I  didn't  say  that  about  his  collar,  Tom,"  said 
Susy  reprovingly. 

"Well,  then,  why  does  he  get  it?" 

Mrs.  Wilbour  giggled  reminiscently. 

"Mrs.  Wakeman  tried  to  get  a  discount  at  Bark 
&  Milford's  for  his  cigars,"  she  confided,  "but 
they  don't  do  it  any  more;  she  was  awfully  angry 
— she  said  there  was  no  respect  for  the  cloth  in 
this  country." 

"I  should  hope  there  wasn't,"  her  husband  re- 
130 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

joined  scornfully,  "if  that's  the  test  of  it,  by 
George!  Will  you  tell  me  why  Wakeman  should 
get  his  cigars  any  cheaper  than  I  do?" 

"I  suppose  it's  just  a  sort  of  custom,"  Susy  re 
marked  pacifically. 

"Yes,  and  so  was  burning  witches,  but  it's 
gone  out,  lately,"  said  Tom  with  effective  brevity, 
stuffing  his  pipe  decisively  and  ending  the  dis 
cussion,  from  his  point  of  view. 

"But  really,  Tom,  that  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  the  question,  you  know,"  Susy  persisted  — 
"cigars  and  collars  and  all  that." 

"Oh,  hasn't  it?"  her  husband  cried.  "You 
think  not?  Ask  a  few  men,  and  see  what  they 
say,  that's  all!" 

' '  But  a  change  is  the  same  as  a  rest,  everybody 
says," 

Susy  had  given  up  the  contention,  but  she  could 
not  resist  this  parting  shot — an  ill-advised  one, 
for  Tom  turned  on  her  triumphantly. 

"The  Sunday  that  I  went  with  you  this  winter 
may  represent  your  idea  of  a  rest,  Susan  Wilbour, 
but  leading  other  people's  bulldogs  out  of  church 
and  side-stepping  an  epileptic — 

"But  the  poor  man  can't  help  having  them, 
Tom." 

"No,  but  I  can  help  assisting  at  any  function 
he's  likely  to  adorn,"  said  Tom  grimly. 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Mr.  Wakeman  says  he  hasn't  the  heart  to  for 
bid  him  to  come — it's  his  only  pleasure,"  Susy 
explained. 

"That's  all  right,  that's  Wakeman's  business," 
Tom  returned  briskly,  "but  it's  not  my  job,  that's 
all." 

"Well,  then,  I  suppose  I'd  better  get  ready  and 
go  alone,"  said  Susy  disconsolately,  plumping 
the  cushions  on  the  library  couch  and  eying  the 
damp,  gray  landscape  with  some  distaste;  "that 
is,  unless  —  unless  you'd  rather  I  stayed  with 
you.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  I'd  rather,"  her  husband  replied 
promptly;  "the  only  chance  I  get  to  see  any 
thing  of  you." 

"Then  it's  my  duty  to  stay,"  she  announced 
firmly,  "and  I'll  go  some  Sunday  when  you  can 
work  outdoors." 

Mr.  Wilbour  mended  the  fire  with  alacrity,  and 
all  seemed  in  the  best  possible  train  when  the  ap 
pearance  of  Martin  in  the  doorway,  crackling  in 
fresh  white  duck,  a  white  sailor  hat  perched  on 
his  decorously  parted  locks,  and  a  beaming  and 
expectant  smile  on  his  lips,  produced  a  sigh  of 
recollection  from  his  mother. 

"Oh,  Martin  dear,  I'm  afraid  we  can't  go  to 
day — father  doesn't  want  to,"  she  began  — -"and 
what  have  you  got  on  your  summer  suit  for?" 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

Martin  looked  portentously  displeased,  and 
gazed  accusingly  at  his  father. 

"You  said  we  would — you  said  so!"  he  began 
chidingly,  "and  I  got  all  ready  on  purpose.  This 
is  just  what  I  wore  when  we  went  before.  Father 
needn't  go — just  us  two.  You  promised." 

Susy  looked  uneasily  about  the  room  as  if  to 
gain  inspiration  from  the  furniture,  and  avoid,  at 
the  same  time,  the  faces  of  her  husband  and  her 
son,  whose  expressions  at  these  family  crises  were 
wont  to  resemble  each  other  remarkably. 

"I  did  tell  him,  Tom,"  she  began,  "he  is  so 
anxious  to  go  .  .  ." 

"Very  well,"  said  Tom  quickly,  "that's  right 
enough,  but  I  have  told  you  more  than  once, 
Susy,  that  you  have  simply  got  to  begin  making 
the  boy  understand  that  things  happen  and 
people  change  their  minds.  It's  got  so  that  this 
whole  house  is  held  up  right  and  left  in  order  to 
keep  promises  made  to  the  children  that  never 
should  have  been  promises,  anyhow.  I  approve 
of  the  principle  when  it's  a  matter  of  importance, 
but  you  can't  keep  people  on  a  schedule  that  way, 
you  know,  and  Binks  is  old  enough  to  use  his 
judgment — aren't  you,  old  fellow?" 

Martin,  who  had  followed  the  meaning  of  this 
speech  quite  accurately,  though  unacquainted 
with  many  of  the  words  in  it,  pulled  his  mouth 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

down  sulkily  and  began  to  stub  his  toes  against 
the  door-sill. 

' '  She  said  she'd  go, ' '  he  muttered ;  ' '  she  said  so. 
She  said  she'd— 

"That   will   do,"   Tom   interrupted   decidedly. 


"I  don't  doubt  your  mother  said  she'd  go,  but 
she  has  changed  her  mind.  She  thought  I  was 
going  with  you,  but  I — I  can't  manage  it  very 
well  to-day,  and  so  we're  all  going  to  stay  at  home. 
It's  a  damp  day,  and  I  think  it  will  rain  before 
noon." 

"Why  can't  you  manage  it  very  well  to-day?" 

"Because  I  can't,  that's  all." 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"We  could  put  down  the  curtains  on  the 
carriage." 

"We  won't  discuss  it,  Martin.  I  don't  care  to 
get  the  wagon  all  muddy." 

"Myron's  got  to  get  the  paper,  anyway;  then 
it  '11  have  to  get  muddy." 

"Stop  talking  about  it  now,  and  go  up  and 
change  that  ridiculous  suit." 

Martin  rattled  the  door-knob  exasperatingly. 

"If  it  didn't  rain,  it  wouldn't  get  muddy,  any 
way!"  he  whined. 

Tom  set  his  jaw  and  rose  from  the  chair  he  was 
stretched  out  in,  and  Martin  abruptly  relinquished 
both  whine  and  door-knob,  to  his  mother's  great 
relief. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  think  that  we  don't  keep 
our  word,  dear,"  she  murmured  as  the  door  was 
discreetly  closed  and  the  white  canvas  shoes  pat 
tered  virtuously  toward  the  stairs. 

"I  don't  believe  his  mind  is  poisoned  to  any 
extent,"  Tom  rejoined  easily,  profiting  by  the 
softness  always  engendered  in  Susy  by  his  success 
ful  interference  in  domestic  policies,  and  kissing 
her  comfortably  under  her  left  ear;  "he's  not  a 
fool,  my  dear  girl.  Why,  see  here,  Toots,  sup 
pose  we  had  six  children— 

"Goodness,  Tommy!" 

"Yes,  of  course,  but  people  do.     And  suppose 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

no  grown  person  in  the  house  could  ever  change 
its  mind  in  regard  to  anything  that  had  been 
said  to  any  one  of  the  six — don't  you  see  how 
ridiculous  that  would  be?  We'd  all  go  crazy." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that's  so,"  she  answered 
thoughtfully. 

"I'm  disappointed,  you're  disappointed,"  Tom 
pursued,  pleased  at  her  reasonable  attitude  and 
enlarging  upon  his  theme;  "we  all  have  to  run 
against  things  some  time  or  other,  you  know, 
Toots,  and  the  kid  had  better  find  it  out,  it  seems 
to  me.  As  far  as  that  goes,"  he  added,  glancing 
sidewise  at  her  as  she  leaned  against  him  in  the 
chair,  "he's  morally  certain  to  find  out  that  some 
of  the  Reverend  Wakeman's  views  aren't  exactly 
in  line  with  other  little  facts  he's  due  to  pick  up 
sooner  or  later,  and  perhaps  he  won't  be  so  shocked 
if  he  gets  a  little  practice  at  home." 

"Why,  Tom  dear,  everybody  says  that  Mr. 
Wakeman's  so  advanced — Mrs.  Strenway  was  so 
surprised  to  find  such  a  broad-minded  man  in 
such  a  small  place,  she  said." 

"Um,"  her  husband  returned  cryptically,  "I'll 
bet  she  was.  Harriet  Strenway  was  always  sur 
prised  at  anybody's  knowing  anything  she  didn't, 
and  it  was  those  telling  facts  about  the  Four  Hun 
dred  that  got  her,  my  dear.  I  don't  believe  they 
take  the  same  newspaper." 

136 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Tom!" 

"That's  all  right,  Toots,  but  now  that  we're 
on  the  subject,  will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  there 
is  that  strikes  you  as  particularly  broad-minded 
in  preaching  against  the  vices  of  multi-millionaires 
to  thirty-eight  people,  of  whom  not  three  have 
over  three  thousand  dollars  a  year?  I  may  be 
narrow,  myself,  but  I  can't  see  the  point." 

"Oh,  well,  Tom,  Mrs.  Strenway  meant  that  it 
was  very  brave  of  him— 

"Brave?  In  Heaven's  name,  Susan  Wilbour, 
how  was  it  brave  ?  Not  one  of  the  multi-million 
aires  was  there!  I  shouldn't  think  it  would  re 
quire  any  very  reckless  state  of  mind  to  scold 
about  the  number  of  quarts  of  champagne  con 
sumed  weekly  in  the  combined  restaurants  of  New 
York  to  old  lady  Purdy,  who  lives  on  buttermilk 
for  her  digestion.  And  the  only  reward  for  his 
bravery  in  the  case  of  that  noble  effort  on  luxuri 
ous  yachting,  that  pleased  Aunt  Em  so  when  she 
was  here,  appears  to  have  been  that  the  druggist 
on  the  corner  left  in  a  huff  and  took  his  daughter 
out  of  the  choir." 

"That  was  because  he  thought  Mr.  Wakeman 
meant  his  cat-boat,  Tom." 

"Exactly.  But  as  he  didn't  mean  the  cat- 
boat,  and  as  nobody  else  in  the  congregation  ever 
came  within  ten  feet  of  a  yacht,  probably,  it  seems 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

to  have  been  misplaced  excitement  on  his  part. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Well,"  Susy  admitted,  "it  was  too  bad  about 
poor  Mr.  Pillbridge,  because  of  course  nobody 
would  think  of  grudging  him  the  pleasure  he  gets 
from  that  cat-boat  Saturday  afternoons — he 
loaned  it  to  the  Fresh  Air  Fund  picnic,  too.  But 
his  election-day  sermon,  Tom,  you  must  admit — 

"My  darling  girl!"  Tom  wagged  his  head 
hopelessly  at  her.  "I  didn't  have  the  pleasure 
of  assisting  at  that  bit  of  oratory,"  he  pursued 
thoughtfully,  "but  if  it  was  anywhere  nearly  cor 
rectly  reported  in  the  local  press,  it's  a  good  thing 
Wakeman  never  tried  for  any  other  job  than  his 
present  one.  He'd  have  a  terribly  hard  time 
getting  it  in  the  town  he  preached  that  sermon 
in,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  rain  had  now  begun  in  good  earnest,  and 
with  a  natural  if  not  wholly  logical  conviction 
that  nature  had  thoroughly  justified  Tom's  course 
of  action,  Susy  settled  herself  to  the  belated  cor 
respondence  inevitably  delegated  to  rainy  Sun 
days  and  wrote  busily  for  a  few  minutes,  to  be 
interrupted  shortly  by  Bell,  whose  apologetic 
countenance  bore  the  unmistakable  expression 
worn  by  the  bearer  of  a  ridiculous  message  which 
must,  nevertheless,  be  delivered,  according  to 
previous  contract. 

138 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Mrs.  Wil- 
bour,"  she  began,  "but  Martin  is  obstinate  for 
me  to  come  and  tell  you  can  he  put  away  those 
white  duck  trousers  and  the  other  things  in  a 
special  box,  till  he  needs  'em  ?  He  says  he  must 
have  a  church -box.  And  he  wants  moth-balls 
in  with  'em.  Yes'm,  I  told  him  I  was  sure  you 
wouldn't  allow  it,  especially  as  moths  don't  eat 
duck,  or  canvas  shoes  either,  but  he  wants  every 
stitch  of  that  suit  to  go  in,  clean  handkerchief  and 
stockings  and  all.  Then,  he  says,  it  '11  be  all 
ready  under  his  bed,  so  he  can  put  his  hand  on  it 
in  a  hurry.  That  was  what  he  said,  really,  Mr. 
Wilbour.  I  know,"  Bell  concluded  with  the  privi 
leged  frankness  of  an  old  retainer,  "I  know  Mr. 
Wilbour  doesn't  always  believe  Martin  says  things 
just  as  I  say  he  does,  but  it's  so — I  always  repeat 
very  exact.  And  he  wants  his  father  to  write 
'church-box'  in  large  printing,  in  ink,  on  the 
cover.  He  says  he  knows  of  a  very  good  box  in 
the  blue-room  closet." 

' '  Church-box  ?"  Susy  queried.  ' '  What  an  idea ! 
What  can  the  child  mean?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Wilbour,"  Bell  continued 
with  a  virtuous  but  self-effacing  air,  "Martin  not 
being  a  member  of  the  Sunday-school,  of  course 
he  don't  get  any  of  them  little  church-boxes — 
they  fill  them  with  pennies,  and  then  at  Easter 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

they  pile  them  up,  and  march  around  and  sing. 
The  other  little  boys  at  school  mostly  have  them 
(they  have  them  in  nearly  all  the  churches  now) , 
and  so  he  hears  about  them.  And  of  course  you 
know  what  a  child  is.  So  what  he  says  is,  if  he 
can't  have  a  church-box  for  money,  he'll  have 
one  for  trousers." 

Bell's  manner,  conveying  subtly,  as  it  did,  that 
human  nature,  if  balked  of  a  pious  desire,  takes 
refuge  in  less  estimable  flights  of  fancy,  at  the 
risk  of  those  responsible  for  its  abridgments,  was 
not  without  its  due  effect  on  Susy,  who  was 
always  prompt  to  be  influenced  by  such  impalpable 
criticism,  and  easily  led  to  believe  in  the  strength 
of  any  position  held  with  sufficient  decision  by 
anybody  else. 

"I  suppose  the  poor  child  does  feel  it,"  she  said 
thoughtfully,  "and  if  that  foolish  Miss  Ada  Reed 
wasn't  so  ridiculously  High  Church  and  didn't 
teach  the  children  such  absurd  things,  I'd  have 
sent  him  long  ago.  But  she  has  all  the  little  ones, 
and  Mr.  Wakeman  can't  very  well  remove  her, 
considering  all  her  stepfather  does  for  the  church. 
Not  that  he  approves,  himself.  But  ever  since 
she  tried  to  get  little  Willie  Weeks  to  give  up 
meat  in  Lent — he  was  only  seven,  you  know,  Tom, 
and  Mrs.  Weeks  was  furious — I  resolved  that  I 
simply  couldn't  send  Martin,  he  does  take  such 

140 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

ideas,  you  know,  and  he's  so  obstinate  with  them. 
So  Mrs.  Weeks  sends  Willie  to  the  Congregational 
Sunday-school  now— they  use  a  lot  of  our  service, 
anyway,  and  Mr.  Weeks  simply  put  his  foot  down, 
she  said." 

"Did  he  put  it  down  on  Ada?"  Tom  inquired 
eagerly.  "I  hope  so!" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Susy  simply,  "he  couldn't 
very  well — she's  that  big  woman  that  plays  the 
organ.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"Oh,  she's  that  one,  is  she?  Well,  see  here, 
Toots,  the  next  time  you  see  Ada,  tell  her  in  a 
friendly  way  from  me  that  it  isn't  meat  she  ought 
to  be  giving  up,  if  there's  anything  in  the  popular 
theory — it's  potatoes." 

"My  dear  Tom,  you  don't  give  up  potatoes  in 
Lent,"  Susy  assured  him  seriously. 

"I'll  bet  Ada  doesn't,"  he  responded  with  con 
viction,  pulling  hard  at  his  pipe,  "hence  my 
advice." 

Bell  coughed  politely  at  this  point,  and  Susy, 
recalled  to  her  maternal  problems,  frowned  obedi 
ently,  and  attacked  them  again. 

"What  would  you  think  of  the  Congregational 
Sunday-school,  Tom?"  she  inquired.  "Then  he 
wouldn't  tease  for  church  so.  And  he  is  really 
too  restless  to  go.  He  keeps  me  on  pins  and 
needles,  and  I  can't  follow  the  service  at  all.  It 

T4T 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

seems  so  odd  he  should  want  to  go  so  much.  If 
he  had  to,  as  some  children  do,  he'd  loathe  it, 
of  course — I  know  I  always  did.  I  can't  see  what 
he  expects  to  like;  there's  very  little  music,  and 
they  do  the  Litany  every  single  Sunday,  and  the 
sermon  does  seem  so  long." 

"It's  only  an  hour  and  a  half,"  Tom  re 
peated  absently,  "and  a  change  is  a  rest,  re 
ally." 

Susy  blushed,  and  tried  not  to  smile. 

"Then  it's  you  that  have  corrupted  my  good 
habits,  Tom  Wilbour,  and  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed!  And  lots  of  the  girls  I  knew  before 
I  was  married  say  the  same  thing." 

"You  told  me  awhile  ago  that  there  wasn't 
one  of  those  girls  you  didn't  think  much  im 
proved,"  he  remarked  casually.  "Did  you  mean 
you  found  them  more  immoral?" 

"Why,  Tom  Wilbour,  of  course  not — the  idea! 
But  of  course  going  to  church  is  one  thing, 
and—" 

"And  morality  is  another,"  he  interrupted 
quickly.  "Just  so,  and  that's  what  I've  been 
trying  to  instil  into  you,  lo!  these  many  years, 
Tootie." 

The  ensuing  silence  while  Mrs.  Wilbour  en 
deavored  to  adjust  her  mind  to  this  situation, 
into  which  she  had  the  confused  feeling  that  she 

142 


TMD    BIOGRAPHY    Or    A    BOY 

had  been  unduly  hurried,   was  broken  by  Bell, 
who  stood  immovably  by  the  door. 

"I  know  why  Martin  wants  to  go,  Mrs.  Wil- 
bour,"  she  announced,  as  one  who  is  ever  ready 
and  willing  to  contribute  to  the  solid  information 
of  any  company,  once  the  said  company  has 
finished  with  the  empty  raillery  that  too  often 
passes  for  conversation. 

"Do  you,  Bell?"  cried  Susy  hopefully.  "Why 
is  it?" 

"Because  he  wants  to  see  that  man  have  an 
applectic  fit,"  said  Bell,  with  no  particular  emo 
tion  of  any  sort.  "He  often  speaks  of  it  to 
Thomas  and  me,  and  complains  that  he  never 
gets  the  chance.  And  yet  the  man  has  had  a 
good  many.  I've  seen  three,  myself." 

"Why — why — why,  Bell,  how  dreadful!"  Susy 
gasped.  "The  horrid  boy!  I'll  never  take  him 
again — never!" 

"Yes'm,"  returned  the  nurse  imperturbably, 
"I  thought  you'd  feel  that  way,  most  prob'ly. 
But  there's  no  fits  at  the  Cong'ational  Sunday- 
school,  and  they  have  fine  entertainments  there. 
Socials  for  the  grown  people,  and  picnics  and 
tricks  with  handkerchiefs  for  the  children.  And 
they  have  the  church-boxes,  too.  A  good  many 
from  Martin's  school  goes  there,  and  they  cer 
tainly  do  give  fine  Christmas  presents." 

143 


THB    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Good!"  Tom  burst  out  enthusiastically,  "that 
is  the  place  for  Binks,  I  can  see  that  at  a  glance! 
I  wish  they'd  had  tricks  with  handkerchiefs  when 
I  went  to  Sunday-school.  But  all  they  had  was 
Golden  Texts,  and  Aunt  Em  was  a  regular  in 
quisition  in  the  Golden-Text  line,  I  tell  you.  I 
used  the  only  handkerchiefs  in  that  game.  That's 
a  fine  idea,  too,  of  the  presents.  They  believe  it's 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  you  see, 
Susy,  and  naturally  they  want  to  corner  all  the 
blessings." 

"You  say  everything  upside  down,  Tom," 
Susy  complained.  "You're  worse  than  Martin. 
That  will  do,  Bell;  let  Martin  put  his  suit  in  the 
box  if  he  likes  —  it  can't  hurt  anything.  But 
no  moth-balls,  of  course,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  him 
about  that  poor  man." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Bell,  and  departed,  leaving  the 
parents  of  her  charge  to  muse  on  his  reasons  for 
seeking  the  sanctuary  to  any  extent  pleasing  to 
them. 

The  next  Sabbath  smiled  on  Martin  wending 
his  way  in  triumph  to  the  Congregational  Sunday- 
school,  the  convenience  of  its  hour,  as  opposed 
to  the  unreasonably  early  session  at  the  Episcopal 
church,  where  it  preceded  the  regular  service, 
proving  a  passable  excuse  for  his  straying  from 
the  fold — it  never  having  occurred  to  Susy, 

144 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

thoroughgoing  American  empress  as  she  was,  to 
advance  her  husband's  early  associations  (which 
had  been,  to  judge  from  his  resigned  comments, 
of  a  stringent  and  relentless  nature)  with  the 
church  now  adorned  by  his  son. 

The  teacher  of  the  Infant  Class,  which  Martin, 
though  nearly  eight  now  and  therefore  eligible 
to  more  advanced  standing,  was  forced  to  join, 
on  account  of  his  ignorance  of  dogma  and  pro 
cedure  generally — an  ignorance  approved  by  Tom 
and  suffered  by  Susy — was  a  mild,  stout  old  lady 
of  genial  address  and  long  experience  with  chil 
dren.  She  led  them  lustily  in  song,  in  a  cracked, 
hearty  voice;  recited  more  or  less  irrelevant 
texts,  selected,  obviously,  with  a  view  rather  to 
brevity  than  intelligibility,  in  chorus  with  them; 
invented  many  little  honors  and  dignities,  such 
as  book-distributing,  chair-arranging,  and  black 
board-cleaning,  which  greatly  facilitated  her  own 
ease;  and  had  hit  upon  an  ingenious  system  of 
solitary  confinement  under  the  pipe-organ  for  re 
fractory  cases — all  of  which  had  made  her  amaz 
ingly  popular  and  kept  her  in  office  upward  of 
twenty  years.  Her  theory  as  to  the  successful 
conduct  of  an  Infant  Class,  as  she  confided  to 
Bell,  with  that  young  woman's  complete  appro 
bation,  was  plenty  of  drinks  of  water  and  enough 
exercise  of  leg  and  lung  to  relieve  the  excess  of 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 


animal  spirits  so  often  noted  in  very  young 
Christians;  and  modern  science,  however  it  might 
differ  with  her  theological  views,  could  but  up 
hold  her  psychology. 

Martin  returned  fascinated  with  her  personality 
and  methods,  deeply  impressed  with  the  awful 
recent  judgment  upon  Willie  Weeks  (who,  freed 
from  the  asceticism  of  his  previous  ritualistic  in 
structress,  would  appear  to  have  indulged  in 
meat  banquets  to  the  complete  annihilation  of 
his  spiritual  nature,  and  passed,  in  consequence, 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  under  the  organ),  and 
infatuated  by  the  possession  of  a  small  card, 
highly  colored  with  forget-me-nots  and  decorated 

146 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OF  A    BOY 

with  the  motto  "Thou  God  Seest  Me,"  which  he 
assured  his  astonished  parents  marked  his  ex 
traordinary  proficiency  in  the  Scriptures.  He 
passed  the  afternoon  pleasantly — to  himself,  at 
least — in  teaching  Thomas  to  sing  Onward,  Chris- 
Han  Soldiers!  and  exhibited  a  stiff,  bemottoed 
"church -box"  with  such  ingenuous  pride  and 
anxiety  that  Tom,  for  the  honor  of  the  family,  was 
forced  to  contribute  pennies  out  of  all  reason  to  a 
fund  ultimately  destined  for  the  particular  brand 
of  heathen  he  disapproved  of  most ! 

His  glowing  encomiums  quite  shamed  poor  Susy, 
who  felt,  with  her  usual  ready  absorption  of  any 
new  idea,  that  only  her  carelessness  and  Tom's 
cruelty  had  deprived  the  child  of  two  years'  com 
panionship  and  training,  for  old  Mrs.  Singleton's 
simple  common-sense  morality  and  code  of  nursery 
virtue  were  indisputably  reasonable  and  unpreju 
diced;  and  at  her  son's  request  she  accompanied 
him  gladly  to  one  of  the  sessions,  where  he  shone 
in  an  undoubtedly  correct  if  somewhat  hurried 
rendition  of  the  Beatitudes,  and  vaingloriously 
distributed  books  from  the  little  lending  library 
with  all  the  air  of  an  usher. 

Mrs.  Singleton  related,  in  much  the  concise  and 
rapid-fire  delivery  of  the  music-hall  monologist, 
her  justly  famous  expurgated  version  of  the  dis 
covery  of  Moses  by  Pharaoh's  daughter,  at  an  age 

147 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT    A    BOY 

when  the  total  inexperience  of  the  principal  char 
acter  should  have  protected  him,  it  would  seem, 
from  the  necessity  of  any  very  great  amount  of 
literary  excision;  but  as  the  brisk  old  lady  con 
fided  afterward  to  Susy,  there  was  precious  few 
of  the  Bible  stories  that  was  fit  to  be  told  to  such 
small  children  just  as  they  stood,  and  ever  since 
she  had  one  little  girl  break  a  blood-vessel  crying 
over  the  cruelty  of  Joseph's  brethren  she'd  been 
pretty  careful  how  she  put  things. 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  we  all  know  there's 
a  great  lesson  in  'em,  and  one  we're  qualified  to 
understand  at  our  age,  but  they're  tender-hearted 
when  it  comes  to  partings  in  families  and  such 
like,  though  they  don't  mind  blood  or  killings  by 
armies,  and  all  that,"  she  chatted  volubly  at  the 
close  of  the  exercises,  adjusting  her  prim  little 
veil  over  her  good-humored  nose  before  a  tiny 
cracked  mirror  ingeniously  concealed  in  the  back 
of  a  plaster  cast  of  the  kneeling  Samuel,  while  she 
bestowed  her  odds  and  ends  of  illustrated  text- 
cards,  candied  flag-root,  reading-glasses,  and  stray 
handkerchiefs  in  an  ageless  black  silk  bag  with 
frayed  drawing-strings. 

"I  don't  even  say  much  about  the  Flood  any 
more — there's  no  telling  how  they'll  take  it;  and 
in  a  good  many  ways  the  Flood's  hard  to  explain, 
Mrs.  Wilbour,  if  you've  ever  thought  of  it.  When 

148 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT   A    BOY 

old  Mr.  Seelye  was  sup'rintendent  he  bought  me 
a  fine  big  set  of  Bible  pictures  that  flopped  over 
on  a  roll,  like  an  almanac,  you  know,  and  said 
they'd  be  a  grand  thing  for  the  children,  being 
all  by  great  artists.  Well,  the  very  first  one  was 
an  awful  real  scene  of  Adam  and  Eve  and  the 
snake,  and  I'm  not  overfond  of  snakes  myself, 
so  I  didn't  dwell  on  it  much,  but  the  Wetmore 
twins  (perhaps  you've  noticed  them  in  the  vil 
lage —  they're  young  ladies  now)  got  all  upset 
over  that  snake  (he  was  pretty  green  and  dread 
fully  striped),  and  I  declare,  those  children  had  to 
have  a  night-light  for  years!  Their  mother  was 
a  good  deal  put  out  over  it,  but  of  course  she  didn't 
blame  me. 

"Then  came  Cain  and  Abel.  And  I  must  say  I 
didn't  see  that  there  was  any  need  for  showing 
Cain  quite  so  fierce,  with  a  tremendous  jagged 
rock,  right  in  the  act  of  bumping  Abel's  head- 
Mrs.  Davis  always  insisted  it  gave  Adelaide  the 
idea  of  treating  her  little  friends  that  way  when 
they  wouldn't  mind  her.  I  don't  think  that  was 
quite  fair,  though,  hardly;  children  do  think  up 
so  me  things  for  themselves. 

"But  nobody  liked  the  Flood.  It  was  by  Dore, 
a  French  artist,  and  there'd  be  an  arm  sticking  up 
here  and  a  leg  there,  and  awful  expressions  on  just 
heads,  that  stuck  up  out  of  the  water  all  alone. 

149 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Right  on  the  top  of  something  wooden — I  sup 
pose  it  was  a  dog-house — there  was  a  big  New 
foundland  dog  with  one  paw  over  a  little  one, 
and  its  head  up  as  if  'twas  howling.  Well,  all 
those  children  thought  of  was  that  dog.  I  couldn't 
get  them  to  care  about  Xoah  or  all  the  animals 
that  were  saved — it  was  just  that  dog.  Before  I 
had  those  pictures  I  used  to  talk  mostly  about 
the  Ark,  and  not  so  much  about  the  Flood,  you 
see,  and  as  they  had  Noah's  Arks,  lots  of  them, 
that  always  seemed  reasonable  and  held  their  at 
tention.  But  nothing  would  do,  now,  but  that 
Newfoundland  dog — I  thought  I'd  go  crazy  with 
them.  One  little  fellow  with  brown  eyes  (I  can 
see  him  now — he  died  of  croup,  poor  child)  he'd 
look  at  me  so  mournful  and  say,  'What  did  the 
poor  mother-dog  do,  Mrs.  Singleton  ?  Why  was 
that  mother-dog  bad  ?  I  think  it  was  mean  of 
God  to  drown  the  poor  little  puppy,  too,  Mrs. 
Singleton— was  it  bad  ?'  And  then  they'd  all  look 
so  solemn,  and  I  couldn't  get  their  minds  off  for 
anything  I  could  do. 

"I  wish,'  says  one  of  'em,  'that  old  Noah  was 
drowned  and  the  poor  mother-dog  got  into  the 
Noah's  Ark  with  her  puppy!'  And  then  they  all 
joined  in,  and  nn'lly  I  had  to  tell  Mr.  Seelye 
I  was  much  obliged,  but  as  far  as  I  was  con 
cerned  they  c'cl  put  those  artists'  pictures  into 

150 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

the  missionary -box,  and  I'd  go  on  as  I  used 
to." 

There  \vas  no  doubt  that  these  were  the  words 
of  a  specialist  and  a  successful  one,  and  Susy, 
much  relieved  to  find  that  Tom  shared  her  re 
spect  for  the  garrulous  old  lady,  and  agreed  with 
her  that  Binks  might  form  acquaintance  with  the 
Scriptures  under  worse  auspices,  dismissed  the 
matter  from  her  mind,  and  beyond  spasmodic 
contributions  of  pennies  to  the  church-box  and 
polite  listening  to  the  various  hymns,  whose 
sometimes  obscure  renderings  bespoke  her  mater 
nal  attention,  left  her  son  to  the  hands  through 
which  so  many  young  pilgrims  had  passed  with 
out  spiritual  injury.  She  had  been  an  active, 
restless  child  herself,  a  confessed  tomboy  in  the 
eyes  of  the  community,  somewhat  laxly  governed 
by  an  indulgent  older  sister;  and  as  is  usual  with 
such  natures,  she  vibrated  between  a  half-acknowl 
edged  consciousness  that  such  easy  courses  had 
not  proved  so  vicious  in  the  result,  after  all,  and 
a  generous  desire  to  do  better  (if  it  should  be 
better)  by  the  little  creatures  dependent  upon 
her  for  their  earliest  and  strongest  notions  of  the 
virtues  and  proprieties. 

It  was  therefore  with  a  doubtful  feeling  of  hav 
ing  decided  too  hastily  in  the  matter  of  relig 
ious  instruction  for  her  son  that  she  listened 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

to  a  spirited  discussion  in  the  pretty  little  village 
library,  in  the  course  of  which  the  wife  of  a  local 
magnate  described  with  pride  the  flourishing 
condition  of  the  Methodist  Sunday-school,  whose 
discipline,  advanced  methods,  and  high  standing 
had  passed  beyond  mere  local  rumor,  and  enjoyed 
a  lengthy  treatment  in  a  widely  read  magazine 
devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  home.  This 
school,  which  boasted  more  than  two  hundred 
members  of  all  ages,  was  taught  entirely  by 
salaried  instructors,  graded  as  accurately  as  the 
public  schools,  defended  against  triflers  by  a 
system  of  examinations  and  diplomas,  and  bul 
warked  by  prizes  and  honors  of  which  the  crown 
ing  reward  was  a  free  summer  course  at  Chau- 
tauqua. 

Scorning  the  petty  conflicts  with  Science  which 
have  strewn  the  battle-field  of  the  Church  militant 
for  ages,  this  broad-minded  organization  invited 
discussions  with  biologists  and  ethnologists  and 
any  daring  'ologists,  in  brief,  who  might  be  minded 
to  come  forward,  and  pointed  proudly  to  a  pro 
fessor  of  geology  among  its  instructors  and  the 
editor  of  a  leading  review  on  its  board  of  direc 
tors. 

It  was  a  wealthy  society,  and  no  expense  had 
been  spared  in  the  line  of  papier-mache  models  of 
Jerusalem  in  every  stage  of  preservation,  plotted 

152 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

maps  of  the  desert  wanderings  of  the  Israelites, 
and  stereopticon  slides  of  anything  and  every 
thing  mentioned  or  hinted  at  in  the  entire  con 
tents  of  the  Bible,  to  say  nothing  of  a  wonderful 
set  of  Eastern  costumes  assumed  in  the  course 
of  his  lectures  by  the  editor  of  the  leading  re 
view,  whose  personally  taken  photographs  of  Pal 
estine  and  Syria  were  supposed  to  exceed  any 
thing  in  that  direction  previously  secured  to  the 
world. 

"Although,"  Susy  added  thoughtfully,  in  the 
midst  of  a  glowing  description  of  these  educa 
tional  advantages,  which,  by  the  way,  seemed 
to  fail  to  interest  Mr.  Wilbour,  "it  does  seem 
as  if  an  hour  a  day  through  the  week,  with  all 
their  other  lessons,  was  a  great  deal  to  ask  of 
the  older  ones,  doesn't  it  ?  The  daughter  of  that 
dentist  on  Main  Street  that's  so  nice  with  chil 
dren — what  is  his  name? — was  working  terribly 
hard  to  get  that  Chautauqua  scholarship,  and 
having  scarlet  fever  put  her  back,  and  it  seems 
they're  very  strict  about  absences,  and  she  got 
quite  delirious  one  night:  her  mother  says  she 
woke  up  at  twelve  o'clock  screaming,  '  How  many 
ephods  make  a  tetrarch?'  and  they  had  to  take 
her  out  of  school  altogether.  As  her  mother  says, 
in  her  young  days  they  used  to  learn  that  even 
the  Lord  rested  on  the  seventh  day." 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

"Still,  you  must  remember  that  the  Lord  hadn't 
so  much  to  learn,"  Tom  suggested  thoughtfully, 
"and  there  was  more  time  in  those  days." 

As  even  the  professor  of  geology  could  not  have 
denied  this,  Susy  accepted  it  without  discussion, 


relieved  to  find  that  her  husband  did  not  feel 
that  they  were  cheating  Martin  out  of  any  indis 
pensable  system  of  training — a  state  of  mind  into 
which  she  had  been  thrown  by  the  discussion  in 
the  village  library. 

"I  thought  you  would  think  it  was  advanced, 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

Tom,  and — and  scientific  and — and  all  that,"  she 
confided,  a  little  shyly — "more  what  men  would 
believe  in,  you  know.  And  better  for  Martin." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Toots,  don't  be  so  ridicu 
lous  and  darling!"  he  begged  her.  "Am  /  in  the 
habit  of  waking  up  at  twelve  o'clock  to  inquire 
how  many  ephods  make  a  tetrarch  ?  What  in 
thunder  do  I  care — or  any  other  sensible  person  ? 
Why,  see  here,  Susy,  in  Greenfield,  Mass.,  where 
I  was  brought  up  (as  I  may  have  mentioned 
before),  do  you  think  we  didn't  go  to  Sunday- 
school?  Heavens  and  earth,  we  didn't  go  any 
where  else,  it  seems  to  me!  When  you've  sat 
through  morning  service,  and  eaten  your  lunch, 
and  then  sat  through  another  service,  and  then 
gone  to  Sunday  -  school,  and  eaten  supper,  and 
then  gone  to  evening  church,  you'll  get  some  idea 
of  what  the  Sabbath  really  is — and  you  making 
a  fuss  over  one  little  Litany!  The  Lord  knows 
I  respected  those  old  fellows,  though  I  may  not 
agree  with  'em — Deacon  Matthews  was  as  sure 
as  death  that  I  was  bound  straight  for  eternal 
torment,  and,  feeling  as  he  did,  he  naturally 
groaned  and  sweated  over  me!  I  can  tell  you 
there  was  little  time  to  waste  on  modelling  Jeru 
salem  in  kindergarten  clay  in  Greenfield,  Mass.! 
And  if  ever  you  heard  Uncle  William  Wyman 
pray — 'George,  I  used  to  be  afraid  to  get  into 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Or   A    BOY 

bed  nights !  There  wasn't  anything  dilettante 
about  Uncle  William  Wyman  and  he  was  short 
on  stereopticons,  but  he  was  mighty  long  on  the 
Wrath  of  God! 

"But  do  you  suppose  that  troubles  your  friend 
the  dentist's  daughter?  Nary  a  bit.  She's  aim 
ing  for  Chautauqua,  she  is,  and  I'm  sure  I  hope 
she'll  make  it,  but  why  should  anybody  look 
pious  over  her  and  her  tetrarchs  ?  Uncle  William 
Wyman  was  trying  to  shoot  us  boys  into  heaven, 
with  a  poor  outlook  for  us  if  he  didn't  succeed, 
and  that's  why  we  paid  more  attention  then  than 
we  do  now.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  Tom,  I  see,"  said  Susy  meekly,  grateful 
inwardly  that  she  had  not  abstracted  Martin 
from  Mrs.  Singleton's  unprogressive  methods. 

But  even  these  gave  way  under  her  in  the 
most  startling  and  unexpected  manner  a  few 
weeks  later,  when  April  had  rounded  into  May, 
and  two  years  of  their  country  life  had  slipped 
by  so  quickly  that  they  could  scarcely  believe  the 
quiet  calendar.  Martin's  usual  interest  in  his 
little  day-school — a  small  private  institution  for 
children  under  ten  whose  needs  failed,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  to  be  met  by  the  kindergarten, 
but  for  whom  the  plunge  into  the  graded  public 
school  seemed  a  little  too  vigorous — appeared  to 
flag,  suddenly,  and  his  excuses  for  avoiding  its 

156 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

short  sessions  assumed  so  variable  and  unreason 
able  a  character  that  Susy  was  at  her  wits'  end 
with  his  sulky  humors  and  appealed  finally  to 
Tom. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  rash,"  she  ex 
plained  mournfully,  "and  I  gave  him  some  castor- 
oil  last  week,  and  there's  absolutely  nothing  in 
his  throat,  I'm  sure.  But  he  acts  so  ashamed  of 
himself  all  the  time — and  yet  he  says  he's  done 
nothing  bad,  and  Martin  never  lies,  Tom.  Do 
you  think  he  needs  a  tonic?" 

"There's  something  on  his  mind,"  said  Tom, 
briefly;  "he's  not  sick,  dear.  But  I  don't  like  his 
not  wanting  to  play  with  the  other  boys,  I  must 
say.  I  wonder  if  they  bully  him?  Well,  he's 
got  to  work  it  out,  Toots,  that's  all.  He's  big 
for  his  age,  and  there's  no  need  to  worry." 

But  even  this  calm  masculine  philosophy  wav 
ered  slightly  when,  on  returning  unexpectedly 
from  the  city  by  an  early  train,  he  confronted  his 
son  moping  near  the  gate  with  a  lump  like  a 
purple  walnut  under  one  eye,  and  a  generally 
dishevelled  appearance  that  spelled  but  one  word 
to  the  experienced. 

"Well,  well!"  he  began,  "you  do  seem  to  have 
let  yourself  in  for  it!  What's  all  this  about, 
Binks?  You'll  frighten  your  mother,  you  know. 
Who's  fighting  you?" 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

To  his  consternation,  Martin  cast  himself  down 
on  the  carriage-drive  and  burst  into  furious  weep 
ing,  a  course  so  abject  as  to  disgust  Tom  beyond 
words. 

"Here,  get  up,"  he  growled,  "and  take  it  like 
a  man!  If  you  must  fight— 

"I  wasn't  fighting!" 

"Nonsense!     Do  you  think  I'm  blind?" 

"I  tell  you  I  wasn't!" 

"Indeed  he  wasn't,  Mr.  Wilbour,"  panted  a 
female  voice,  and  Bell  appeared  mysteriously,  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  apparently.  "I  ran  as 
fast  as  I  could,  but  Martin  got  away  from  the 
nasty  boy  before  I  could  get  here." 

"Got  away?"  echoed  his  father.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  stood  and  let  a  boy  pummel  you 
like  that  and  then  'got  away'  ?" 

Martin  grovelled  lower  in  the  driveway  and 
wailed  unrestrainedly. 

"Perhaps  he  was  smaller,"  Tom  suggested  hope 
fully,  "and  you  didn't  feel  like  fighting  him,  eh?" 

"Oh  no,  sir,"  cried  Bell  eagerly,  "he  was  a  lit 
tle  bigger  than  Martin,  Mr.  Wilbour — it  was  that 
horrid  boy  near  the  pond.  He  taunts  him  every 
day  we  drive  by — he's  a  bad  one.  But  Martin  '11 
never  fight  him,"  she  added  proudly;  "he'd  be 
ashamed,  wouldn't  you,  Martin?" 

"I  wouldn't  be  ashamed — I  would  not!" 
158 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

screamed  Martin  hysterically,  kicking  out  at  her 
proffered  hand.  ' '  I  can't  fight  him,  but  I  wouldn't 
be  ashamed,  I  tell  you!" 

Tom  looked  puzzled. 

"Suppose  you  go  on  up  to  the  house,  Bell," 
he  suggested,  "and  I'll  attend  to  Martin.  Now, 
Binks,  sit  up  and  talk  to  me.  ..." 

An  hour  later  Susy  looked  up  from  the  book 
she  was  trying  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was 
reading,  and  gasped  at  the  pair  before  her.  Mar 
tin's  eyes  were  doubly  swollen,  for  his  crying  had 
evidently  been  prolonged,  and  Tom  was  flushed 
and  moved  to  a  degree  she  could  not  remember 
to  have  seen  before. 

"Susy,"  he  said  sternly,  "I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  whatever  Martin  may  do  in  the  matter 
that  has  been  troubling  him,  he  does  with  my 
consent." 

Martin  gulped,  but  in  his  shy  glance  at  her  his 
mother  could  not  fail  to  see  the  old  look  she  had 
missed  for  so  many  days,  and  wondered  at  it 
deeply. 

"Mrs.  Singleton,"  Tom  continued  stiffly,  "has 
most  unwarrantably  exacted  a  promise  from  Mar 
tin  never  to  fight  another  boy,  and  as  this  has 
become  known,  and  as  Martin  felt  that  he  could 
not  break  his  word,  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
nagged  and  bullied  to  death." 
11  159 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

"Why,  Martin,  dearest,"  Susy  began  in  be 
wilderment,  "Mrs.  Singleton  didn't  mean  that 
everybody  was  to  pick  on  you  without  your — 

"Excuse  me,"  Tom  interrupted  severely,  "but 
whether  she  meant  it  or  not,  Susy,  that  is  what  it 
amounts  to." 

"To  turn  my  other  cheek,"  Martin  explained 
shamefacedly, ' '  and  that  was  this  one. ' '  He  point 
ed  to  the  bump.  ' '  And  never  to  hit  'em  back.  And 
to  go  with  'em  twain.  And  so  they  all  pinch  me." 

"And  she  took  pains  to  explain  to  him,"  Tom 
added  shortly,  "that  he  would  probably  be  more 
or  less  martyred  for  it,  which,  of  course,  wouldn't 
matter. ' ' 

Susy  twisted  uncomfortably  in  her  chair. 

"Of  course,  it  was  horrid  of  them — I'll  speak 
to  that  boy's  mother  to-morrow,"  she  began; 
"but,  Tom,  that's  just  what  it  says  about  the 
other  cheek,  you  know." 

"I  know,"  he  answered  briefly.  Martin  twisted 
on  his  ankles;  she  felt  suddenly  that  they  were 
in  a  horrid,  impalpable  league  against  her. 

"It's  in  the  Bible,"  she  murmured,  "and  that's 
what  he  goes  there  to  learn — she  didn't  make  it 
up.  .  .  ." 

"Exactly,"  said  Tom  dryly,  "but  Binks  doesn't 
live  in  the  Bible,  dear,  he  lives  in  this  town,  and 
if  his  spirit  is  not  to  be  completely  broken  and  his 

1 60 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

whole  boyhood  made  ridiculous,  he  must  defend 
himself  as  every  man  has  to.  Good  heavens, 
Susy,"  he  demanded,  "am  I  a  bad  sort  of  man? 
Can't  you,  can't  any  decent  person,  trust  me  to 
do  the  right  thing?" 

"Of  course,  Tom!" 

"Very  well.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  let 
anybody  hit  me  in  the  face  and  not  resent  it  ?" 

"I — I  suppose  not,  Tom!" 

"Then  why  should  anybody  teach  Martin  a 
thing  so  eminently  idiotic  ?  A  thing  that  wouldn't 
hold  water  a  minute  ?  A  thing  that— 

"That's  him  whistling  now!"  cried  Martin 
huskily.  "You  said  I  could  go — can  I,  now? 
Can  I,  father?" 

Tom  nodded  tersely,  and  they  were  alone  in 
the  room.  Susy  cried  softly  against  the  chair- 
back. 

"To  tell  your  own  child  to  go  out  and  fight  a 
common  boy  like  that!"  she  moaned.  "I  think 
it's  horrible,  Tom!" 

"The  case  was  exceptional,"  he  answered  pa 
tiently,  "and  he  won't  have  to  do  it  often,  neces 
sarily.  I'll  attend  to  Mrs.  Singleton — that's  all 
that  worries  him." 

"What  will  she  think?"  sighed  Susy. 

Tom  stared  at  his  wife  a  moment,  then  laughed 
ironically. 

161 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"I  don't  suppose  she  ever  ran  across  anybody 
who  took  her  doctrines  so  literally,"  he  said  at 
last.  "It's  not  common  among  church-goers, 
you  must  admit,  my  dear." 

Ten  minutes  passed,  and  then  a  grimy,  bleed 
ing  scarecrow  hurried  into  the  room.  It  was 
Binks,  soiled,  but  master  of  his  soul. 


"He's  nine  years  old,  but  I  licked  him!"  he 
crowed  shrilly.  "I'll  bet  he  don't  pinch  me  any 
more!" 

"Oh,  Martin,  will  you  kiss  me?  Oh,  look  at 
your  cheek!"  Susy  cried.  "Oh,  Tom!" 

"I'll  kiss  you  after  I've  washed  my  face— you 
wait!"  he  assured  her  kindly.  "It's  pretty 

162 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

bloody,  now,  for  kissing.  I'll  come  back."  And 
he  ran  out. 

But  a  look  passed  between  the  two  that  did  not 
escape  her,  and  she  knew  herself  for  a  creature  of  a 
different  sort,  a  lesser  breed,  a  riddle  to  them,  as 
they  to  her,  eternally,  inalterably. 

"Oh,  Tommy,  why  are  men  so  strange?"  she 
cried  bitterly,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  husband's 
shoulder. 


VI 


WHICH   DEALS  WITH   COUNTRY    LIFE   IN  AMERICA 


JFTER  this,  as  is  so  often  the  case, 
since  comparative  calm  seems  wont 
to  hover  in  the  wake  of  great  crises, 
life  moved  easily  and  untroubled  with 
the  Wilbours.  Martin  returned  with 
his  old-time  vigor  and  delight  to  his  day-school, 
where  his  tasks  were  not  yet  sufficiently  heavy 
to  represent  a  great  expenditure  of  time  or  en 
ergy,  and,  contrary  to  his  mother's  expectations, 
he  was  not  plunged  into  any  such  alarming  se 
ries  of  fisticuffs  as  Tom's  brief  consent  had 
seemed  to  imply.  The  initial  encounter  with  the 
bad  boy  by  the  pond  (from  whose  presumably 
enraged  parents  Susy  dreaded  retributory  visits 

164 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

needlessly)  paved  the  way  for  a  general  under 
standing  in  our  hero's  social  circle  that  his  widely 
published  vow  no  longer  bound  him;  and  as  he 
was  naturally  a  healthy,  plucky  little  fellow,  he 
soon  established  his  proper  rank — the  rating,  as 


he  politely  explained  to  his  mother,  to  which  his 
age  and  size  entitled  him  among  his  peers.  More 
over,  he  continued  to  attend  the  Congregational 
Sunday-school,  and  if  his  allegiance  grew  a  little 
less  vivid,  his  interest  a  little  more  perfunctory, 
his  attitude  toward  old  Mrs.  Singleton  a  shade 
more  critical,  all  these  results  may  have  been,  as 
Tom  insisted  they  were,  but  the  logical  results  of 
a  situation  previously  untenable  by  any  reason- 

165 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

able  standard  of  measurement,  and  therefore  de 
serving  an  early  readjustment. 

Susy's  own  attitude  toward  her  first-born  had 
surely,  if  impalpably,  altered  slightly  with  the 
force  of  this  new  development.  Hers  was  a 
cheery,  simple  soul,  but  little  disposed  to  analysis, 
but  she  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that  Tom's  un 
usual  and  decided  interference  with  the  family 
policy  had  brought  about  a  distinct  change  in 
the  relationships  of  their  little  quartet. 

Though  she  had  not  definitely  put  herself  on 
record  as  approving  Mrs.  Singleton's  extorted 
pledge,  she  had  ranged  herself  instinctively,  broad 
ly  speaking,  upon  the  old  lady's  side,  with  a 
vague  feeling  that  custom,  propriety,  and  certain 
acknowledged  principles  of  civilization  supported 
them  both;  and  now  under  Martin's  very  nose, 
so  to  speak,  Tom  had  jerked  custom,  propriety, 
and  civilization  itself  from  beneath  her  sex's 
feet,  and  arrayed  himself  with  his  son  against  her. 
She  was  an  honest  little  creature,  and  she  did 
not  blink  the  fact  that  Martin  was  himself  again, 
fortified  by  a  self-respect  which  all  his  teacher's 
maxims  had  not  been  able,  evidently,  to  afford, 
however  abstractly  justified  they  might  have 
been;  nor  could  she  forget  that  Tom's  masculine 
intuition,  and  not  by  any  means  her  maternal 
solicitude,  had  divined  the  source  of  the  trouble 

166 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

originally.  She  had  always  realized  that  some 
how,  some  time,  Tom  must  become  the  court  of 
last  resort  to  his  sons;  but  she  had  placed  that 
period  vaguely  in  the  future,  and  pictured  him 
arbitrating  years  hence,  amid  the  mysterious 
misdemeanors  of  young  men,  at  which  stage  she 
fondly  imagined  herself  as  likely  to  be  only  too 
glad  to  shift  the  burden  of  a  responsibility  so  un 
familiar.  But  to  have  it  happen  now!  For 
Binks,  whose  very  curls  were  hardly  cut,  to  judge 
her  silently,  weigh  her  with  that  ridiculous  old 
lady,  and  finding  her  wanting,  gravely  assume  the 
prerogatives  of  his  sex  and  claim  comprehensions 
and  traditions  that  never  could  be  hers! 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

More  than  once  since,  his  quiet  "I'll  speak  to 
father  about  it"  had  filled  her  with  a  mingled 
humiliation  and  pride,  and  though  she  still  missed 
him  in  the  school  hours  that  were  much  longer 
than  the  kindergarten's  had  been,  there  was  an 
element  of  relief  in  his  absence. 

Bell's  devotion  and  regret  were  less  compli 
cated,  and  the  faithful  girl,  deprived  of  so  much 
of  her  care  and  business,  redoubled  her  ministra 
tions  in  the  case  of  Thomas,  thus  leaving  Susy 
even  freer,  so  that  her  time,  untaxed  by  the  insidi 
ous  lures  of  city  shopping  and  city  amusements, 
threatened  to  hang  a  little  heavy  on  her  hands. 

It  was  then  that,  to  the  surprise  of  all  her 
friends,  she  developed  a  hitherto  unsuspected 
taste  for  those  duties  and  pleasures  of  country 
life  somewhat  loosely  classed  by  city  dwellers 
under  the  head  of  "farming,"  and  threw  herself 
into  them  with  an  ardor  at  first  amusing,  and 
then  somewhat  disquieting  to  Tom,  who  had 
been  born  on  a  farm,  and  had  not  the  remotest 
intention  of  returning  to  that  environment.  In 
making  his  way  back  to  the  green  spaces  and 
clear  airs  of  his  boyhood,  he  had  but  yielded 
naturally  enough  to  the  call  that  rarely  fails  to 
haunt  the  man  of  forty,  and  would  have  willingly 
endured  the  two  hours  of  railway  travel  it  entailed 
for  the  sake  of  the  weekly  vacation  and  the 

1 68 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

chance  of  offering  a  welcome  hospitality  to  his 
friends.  And  when  to  these  advantages  were 
added  the  indubitable  gain  for  his  boys,  there 
was  no  question  in  his  mind  as  to  the  desirability 
of  the  move,  and  he  had  wished  to  accomplish  it 
at  least  two  years  before  Susy  could  bring  herself 
to  agree  with  him.  But  having  at  last  succeeded, 
as  far  as  the  main  outlines  of  his  scheme  were 
concerned,  and  by  a  masterly  policy  of  inaction 
managed  to  convince  Susy  that  the  situation  was 
entirely  of  her  own  choosing,  Tom  was  prepared 
to  settle  down  into  the  frank  status  of  a  commuter, 
cheerfully  suffering  the  high  taxation  which  in 
sured  him  good  roads,  water,  and  electric  light, 
and  disinclined  to  pursue  the  question  of  eggs 
and  milk  any  further  than  the  local  dealers  in 
such  produce  should  make  necessary. 

The  long  hours  he  had  passed  in  boyhood, 
kneeling  disgustedly  on  a  pine  board,  weeding 
his  uncle's  mammoth  vegetable  garden,  had  im 
pressed  themselves  indelibly  upon  his  mind,  and 
even  now  produced,  he  assured  his  wife,  such 
spiritual  nausea  as  to  render  the  mere  word 
"vegetable"  a  combination  of  syllables  danger 
ous  to  utter  in  his  presence ;  while  only  the  really 
remarkable  cheapness  of  the  spotty  cow  offered 
by  their  neighbor  on  the  occasion  of  their  estab 
lishing  themselves,  and  the  vouched-for  com- 

169 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

petence  of  Myron  Plummer  in  connection  with 
the  useful  animal,  together  with  a  loftful  of  fodder 
for  her  and  the  horse  —  which  his  early  experi 
ence  had  taught  him  was  offered  at  a  ridiculously 
low  figure  —  had  induced  him  to  purchase  the 
beast,  the  very  sight  of  whom  (she  was  a  highly 
personal  cow)  filled  him,  as  he  confided  to  his 
family,  with  unhappy  recollections. 

"Because,"  he  added,  "I  know  about  'em, 
Toots,  and  you  don't.  You  know  they're  spotted, 
and  you  know  they  went  two  by  two  into  the 
Ark,  and  you  know  they're  responsible  for  butter 
and  not  eggs;  and  if  you  get  as  far  as  that,  you're 
doing  well,  for  a  girl  that  grew  up  under  a  lamp 
post.  But  the  rest  is  all  poetry,  as  far  as  you're 
concerned,  and  I  can  tell  you  there's  mighty  lit 
tle  poetry  about  a  cow,  really.  You  read  in  the 
books  how  the  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the 
lea,  and  all  that,  and  you  never  realize  that  some 
poor  boy  has  to  wind  slowly  after  'em — but  he 
does.  I  did  a  good  deal  of  winding  over  Uncle 
William  Wyman's  lea,  I  can  tell  you,  and  it  got 
on  my  nerves.  Just  as  I  was  having  any  luck 
fishing,  or  getting  anybody's  marbles  away  from 
him,  or  watching  the  circus  get  ready  for  supper, 
or  enjoying  a  good  detective  story  in  the  barn, 
I  had  to  go  for  those  cows.  And  lug  in  the  milk, 
too.  And  churn  Saturday  mornings  for  Uncle 

170 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

William's  housekeeper.  They  all  thought  they 
might  as  well  get  something  out  of  me,  because 
they  were  bringing  me  up,  you  see.  When  I 
moved  into  Greenfield  to  live  with  Aunt  Em,  I 
was  a  mighty  contented  boy,  you'd  better  believe. ' ' 

"But  you  won't  have  to  wind  slowly  after  this 
cow,  Tom,"  Susy  reminded  him,  "Myron  Plummer 
will.  And  he  says  she's  such  a  good  one." 

"I  don't  doubt  her  goodness,"  Mr.  Wilbour 
returned  coldly.  "A  cow  as  homely  as  she  is 
might  better  be  good— why  not?  I  am  merely 
suggesting  to  you  that  if  ever  Myron  Plummer 
should  be  for  any  reason  incapacitated,  some  one 
will  have  to  take  his  place  and  milk  that  cow, 
no  matter  how  virtuous  she  may  be.  And  the 
question  immediately  arises,  who  will  it  be?" 

"Perhaps  Mary  knows  how,"  Susy  offered  hope 
fully. 

"Perhaps  she  does,"  her  husband  admitted, 
"and  perhaps  Bell  can  tune  the  piano,  but  I 
wouldn't  bank  on  either  of  those  propositions  if 
I  were  you." 

"But  why  should  Myron  Plummer  be  inca 
pacitated?"  Susy  pursued  with  her  usual  optim 
ism.  "He  seems  very  strong  and  well  to  me." 

Tom  looked  thoughtfully  about  the  veranda, 
where  they  were  sitting  at  the  time,  and  cleared 
his  throat  tentatively. 

171 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  his  catching  the  mumps, 
exactly,"  he  said  slowly,  "and  I  don't  want  to 
alarm  you  unnecessarily,  Toots,  so  early  in  the 
day.  But  I  was  born  and  brought  up  with  hired 
men,  as  you  might  say,  and  spent  most  of  my 
early  life,  it  seemed  to  me  then,  doing  their  work 
for  them,  and  I  had  the  chance  to  make  an  ex 
haustive  study  of  their  methods  and  characters. 
Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  never  knew  a  hired 
man  as  handy  and  willing  as  Myron  that  didn't 
drink,  at  one  time  or  another,  more  than  was 
good  for  him.  And  in  the  case  of  a  big,  husky 
fellow  like  him,  that  means  an  awful  lot." 

"Why,  Tom,"  she  exclaimed,  filled  with  horror, 
"how  dreadful!" 

"Undoubtedly,"  he  agreed,  "but  I  wasn't  think 
ing  so  much  of  the  moral  crisis  at  this  moment  as 
the  inconvenience  to  us.  That's  why  I  didn't 
want  to  go  any  farther  from  the  station — I  can 
always  walk  up,  you  see." 

Susy  had  sighed  thoughtfully,  and  for  some 
time  afterward  regarded  Myron  Plummer  with 
a  quite  unnecessary  mixture  of  caution  and  com 
miseration,  which  she  overcame  finally  to  the 
extent  of  requesting  him  to  teach  her  to  harness 
Fido  and  apportion  his  daily  rations — a  course 
which  amazed  the  good-natured  fellow  greatly. 

Up  to  this  point  the  hired  man  had  had  little 
172 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 


to  do  with  his  mistress.  Susy  was  unaccustomed 
to  men-servants,  and  her  few  suggestions  as  to 
that  part  of  the  menage  outside  the  house  had 
been  carried  to  Myron  by  her  husband  or  Bell. 
She  realized  vaguely  that  he  was  in  many  ways 
the  mainspring  of  the  little  establishment;  that 
the  constant  small  repairs  and  exigencies  of  the 
house  called  for  his  handy  adjustments  and  prac 
tical  common  sense  a  dozen  time  a  day.  His 
jovial  guffaw  kept  the  kitchen  in  shrieks  of  an 
swering  laughter,  his  immaculate  stable,  shining 
carriage,  clean  cow- shed,  and  clipped  lawn  were 
the  admiration  of  appreciative  guests ;  his  shovelled 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

paths  and  general  imperviousness  to  weather 
made  the  winter,  with  its  daily  journeys  station- 
ward,  comparatively  easy ;  and  Susy,  who  for  the 
first  year  of  their  exile  had  spent  a  large  pro 
portion  of  her  time  in  the  city,  had  occasion  to 
think  of  him  only  at  those  times  when  mysteri 
ous  attacks  of  some  unnamed  malady  had  kept 
him  from  his  duties  for  two  or  three  consecutive 
days,  and  the  consequent  confusion  and  scurry 
ing  throughout  the  household,  coupled  with  the 
uninviting  appearance  of  a  helpful  friend  of  the 
sufferer,  borrowed  from  the  livery -stable,  had  im 
pressed  her  with  a  sense  of  something  out  of  tune 
and  troublesome. 

The  second  year  found  her  tired  of  the  constant 
travel  on  the  train,  inclined  to  question  the  value 
of  the  amusements  it  purchased,  more  and  more 
interested  in  gathering  their  friends  into  pleasant 
little  parties  under  their  gradually  strengthening 
roof- tree;  a  change  which  delighted  Tom,  and 
kept  the  chatelaine  of  the  establishment  so  busy 
with  her  picturesque  hospitality  and  its  conse 
quent  visits  to  be  returned  that  she  ignored,  with 
true  American  insouciance,  the  details  of  the  very 
machinery  that  carried  her  along. 

But  the  beginning  of  the  third  season  brought 
sudden  and  unforeseen  changes,  no  one  of  which, 
probably,  could  have  had  much  effect  on  the  Wil- 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

hour  family,  whereas  taken  together  and  acting 
on  each  other,  they  produced,  unrelated  and 
casual  though  they  appeared,  a  completely  differ 
ent  atmosphere,  so  that  in  a  few  weeks  the  head 
of  the  house  of  Wilbour  was  rubbing  his  eyes  in 
amazement,  wondering  what,  in  his  expressive 
phraseology,  had  got  into  Toots. 

And  yet  what  had  happened  was  really  very 
simple  and  apparently  unimportant.  Susy,  in  one 
of  her  harnessing  lessons,  had  noticed  a  strange, 
hollow  cough  coming  from  the  stable,  and  had 
inquired  of  Myron  Plummer  what  it  might  be. 

"It's  the  cow,"  he  answered  promptly,  "she's 
been  that  way  for  two  months  now.  I  told  him 
about  it,  but  he  didn't  give  no  orders,  and  I  can't 
stop  her  anyway  I  try.  Of  course,  I  don't  know 
how  you  feel  about  it,  but  if  'twas  my  cow  I'd 
see  the  vet  about  her.  He  give  forty  dollars  for 
her,  and  she  was  worth  fifty-five  any  day  in  the 
year." 

"Dear  me,"  Susy  commented,  "I  didn't  know 
cows  coughed." 

"No'm,"  Myron  Plummer  replied  politely,  "I 
s'pose  not,  but  they  do.  And  they  can  get  con 
sumption  just  as  good  as  you  can." 

"Heavens!"  she  cried,  "then  get  the  veterinary 
this  moment,  Myron — and  the  children  drinking 
the  milk!  How  awful!" 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"That's  the  idea,"  said  Myron  placidly,  "I 
thought  you  mightn't  like  it,  but  he  didn't  seem 
to  think  it  mattered  none  to  speak  of — he  says 
the  German  science-men  ain't  got  it  figured  out 
yet  that  it  makes  any  difference,  anyhow,  the 
milk  not  coming  from  the  lungs,  I  s'pose;  but  as 
I  reminded  him,  she  ain't  a  German  cow,  and  I'd 
just  as  soon  be  on  the  safe  side,  myself.  It  don't 
sound  like  no  stomach-cough  to  me — that's  all  I 
can  say." 

The  veterinary  agreeing  with  the  hired  man, 
the  cow  was  promptly  disposed  of,  and  Susy  and 
Myron  fared  forth  upon  the  search  for  a  new 
one,  as  Tom  readily  agreed  that  since  the  dis 
tance  from  the  station  required  a  horse,  and  the 
horse  required  a  man,  the  man  might  as  well 
have  his  time  fully  occupied. 

"Tell  Myron  I'll  pay  fifty,"  he  added  hurriedly. 
"There  ought  to  be  plenty  of  them  around,  a  little 
way  back,"  and  jumped  for  the  moving  train, 
where  a  friendly  bridge-table  awaited  him  and 
put  the  incident  out  of  his  mind. 

But  Susy,  greatly  impressed  by  the  affair,  was 
not  inclined  to  leave  it  so  entirely  to  another, 
and  herself  undertook  the  expedition  "a  little 
way  back,"  returning  in  triumph  with  a  clumsy, 
sad-eyed  animal  selected,  she  assured  her  amused 
husband,  largely  by  her  own  instinctive  apprecia- 

176 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

tion  of  the  creature's  best  points,  and  only  rein 
forced  by  Myron  Plummer's  judgment.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  had  been  charmed  by  the 
flattering  deference  to  her  preferences  and  opin 


ions  expressed  by  her  escort  and  the  interested 
dairyman,  and  came  back  intoxicated  with  the 
sense  of  her  practical  grasp  of  a  new  situation 
and  the  consciousness  of  a  wider  field  of  energy 

177 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

and  executive  power  than  she  had  believed  her 
self  to  possess. 

In  the  swing  of  this  elation  she  had  agreed 
wisely  with  Myron  in  his  voluble  regret  at  the 
sale,  which  Tom  had  insisted  upon,  of  the  un 
fortunate  cow's  daughter.  Myron  had  felt  this 
to  be  wrong,  as  he  said,  all  along. 

"Just  look  if  we'd  'a'  had  her  now!"  he  ob 
served  didactically.  "That  would  been  a  good 
lot  o'  money  saved  him,  wouldn't  it  ?  Two  cows 
is  none  too  much;  then  when  one's  no  good  to 
you,  you  have  the  other,  haven't  you?" 

"No    good,'"   Susy   repeated   vaguely,    "you 
mean  when  she  had  a  cough?" 

"I  mean  when  she  had  a  calf,"  said  Myron 
bluntly.  "If  you  keep  two  agoin',  you  always 
have  the  milk  o'  one." 

At  this  point,  as  her  husband  was  afterward 
wont  to  relate,  a  great  light  burst  upon  Susy, 
and  the  cow,  in  her  primarily  maternal  relation 
to  society,  leaped  to  a  place  in  her  estimation 
never  before  occupied  by  that  worthy  and  self- 
sacrificing  beast.  Convinced  that  these  impor 
tant  truths  had  been  lost  upon  Tom  hitherto,  or 
at  any  rate  insufficiently  appreciated,  and  struck 
suddenly  by  the  pathos  of  the  thought  that  a 
hired  servant  was  more  considerate  of  her  hus 
band's  income  than  she  had  been,  Susy,  elated 

r78 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

by  her  share  in  the  recent  purchase,  rose  to  a  new 
conception  of  her  responsibilities  and  addressed 
Myron  Plummer  firmly. 

"Wasn't  there  a  calf  with  the  new  cow?"  she 
demanded. 

"Yes'm,  there  was,"  he  answered  with  alacrity, 
"and  a  shame  to  leave  it,  too,  Mis'  Wilbour! 
We've  got  a  plenty  o'  pasture  for  'em  both,  and 
when  you  raise  a  calf  yourself  you  know  what 
milk  you're  gettin',  I  always  say." 

"I'll  buy  the  calf  this  afternoon,"  said  Susy, 
and  from  that  moment  her  career  as  a  landed 
proprietor  began. 

A  few  days  later,  Tom,  who  came  home  much 
exasperated,  as  were  all  the  surrounding  neigh 
bors,  by  rumors  of  an  intended  baseball -ground 
and  amusement  park  in  the  curve  of  the  great 
post-road  which  ran  behind  their  little  property, 
was  much  surprised  to  find  that  Susy,  never  in 
the  least  interested  in  rural  affairs,  was  quite  as 
well  informed  of  the  project  as  he,  and  equally 
indignant  at  it,  so  that  his  tentative  proposi 
tion  to  join  with  a  number  of  others  in  buy 
ing  various  parcels  of  the  land  in  question  as 
a  protective  measure  met  with  her  hearty  ap 
proval. 

"And  then  we'd  have  more  pasture  if  we 
should  need  it,"  she  added,  a  remark  which  struck 

179 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

him  as  odd  at  the  time,  though  the  importance 
of  it  escaped  him  utterly. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  every  reason  for 
regarding  the  purchase  as  a  good  investment, 
aside  from  its  first  intention,  and  as  such  Tom 
was  content  to  consider  it ;  but  Myron  Plummer 
had  other  and  wider  plans,  and  Tom,  all  unpre 
pared  for  them,  was  in  no  position  to  combat  the 
united  persistence  of  the  two  when  Susy  laid  be 
fore  him  their  scheme  of  a  vegetable  garden  really 
worthy  of  the  house  of  Wilbour. 

"Of  course,  as  Myron  says,"  she  proceeded 
volubly,  "  it's  not  really  worth  a  man's  while  put 
tering  with  a  little  patch  like  that  in  the  back 
yard,  Tom.  A  little  parsley  and  lettuce,  and 
three  tomato-plants  - —  what  are  they  when  you 
really  come  down  to  it?  And  even  that,  as  he 
says,  he  had  to  fight  hard  enough  to  get.  But 
the  boys  eat  so  much  now,  and  there's  no  corn 
like  your  own  corn — everybody  says  that.  Myron 
says  that  in  the  place  where  he  was  before  he 
came  here  they  grew  the  biggest  lima  beans  in 
the  State  and  got  a  prize  for  them.  He  says  two 
or  three  days  with  a  team  would  get  that  new 
piece  into  great  shape — it's  fine  soil.  And  then 
we  could  have  beet-tops — you're  so  fond  of  them, 
and  they  simply  don't  grow  them  about  here, 
you  know." 

1 80 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Beet-tops,  as  I've  explained  to  you  before," 
Tom  interrupted  patiently,  "are  only  the  tops  of 
beets." 

"I  know;  but  if  they  won't  cut  them  the  way 
you  want  them,  you  might  as  well  say  they  don't 
grow  them — like  crown-roasts  of  lamb  at  the 
butcher's,  you  know,"  Susy  explained.  "And 
that  Mrs.  Hirschmann,  on  the  lower  road,  sells 
enough  lettuce  to  pay  for  her — 

"My  dear  Toots!" 

Mr.  Wilbour  clasped  his  hands  dramatically,  and 
an  expression  of  real  terror  checked  her  further 
arguments. 

"If  Myron  thinks  he  can  manage  the  garden, 
all  right — if  you  really  want  it,"  he  assured  her. 
"But  don't,  don't,  I  beg  and  beseech  of  you, 
Toots,  let  yourself  be  led  by  him  or  anybody  else 
into  the  frightful  error  of  imagining  for  an  instant 
that  you  can  pay  for  anything  you  put  into  a 
garden  by  anything  you  sell  out  of  it." 

"But  Mrs.  Hirschmann — " 

He  took  her  hand  pityingly,  and  spoke  in  the 
soothing  tone  dedicated  to  fractious  patients. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  began,  eying  her  firmly, 
"do  you  realize  that  that  little  Jew  has  I  don't 
know  how  many  acres  under  cultivation,  two  big 
greenhouses,  and  a  grapery  ?  I  couldn't  say  how 
many  men  he  employs  all  the  year  'round,  but 

181 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

it  must  be  a  dozen,  at  least,  judging  by  the  list 
of  names  he  tried  to  ring  in  on  us  as  voters  in  that 
road-repair  business.  Now  if  it  amuses  his  wife 
to  send  her  extra  lettuce  to  market  (in  a  sixty- 
horse-power  Panhard)  can  you  look  me  in  the  face 
and  say  that  she  is  'paying  for'  anything  with 
the  proceeds  ?  Why,  they  wouldn't  buy  gasolene 
for  the  trip!" 

Susy  lowered  her  head  a  little  and  pushed  out 
her  lip  —  a  sign  that  caused  her  husband  to 
shudder. 

"But,  Tom  dear,"  she  replied  gently,  "I  never 
said  she  pretended  to  pay  for  her  gasolene — who 
would  suppose  so?  All  she  pretends  to  pay  is 
the  expenses  of  her  own  table  lettuce!" 

Tom  blinked  a  few  moments,  swallowed  hard, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  kissed  her  warmly— a  pro 
ceeding  which  would  have  indicated  clearly  to 
any  possible  onlooker  that  years  of  married  life 
had  not  passed  over  him  in  vain. 

"God  bless  you,  Toots,"  he  said  politely,  "no 
reasonable  woman  could  be  half  so  pleasant  to 
live  with — I  must  get  my  train  I" 

From  that  day  forth  Tom  saw  little  of  Myron 
Plummer,  whose  allegiance  was  wholly  trans 
ferred  to  his  mistress.  Susy,  who  had  never 
dreamed  that  such  a  thing  could  interest  her, 
spent  long  afternoons  with  Thomas  by  her  side 

182 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

on  the  old  pasture  wall,  watching  the  successive 
stages  of  ploughing,  stoning,  fencing,  and  fertiliz 
ing;  while  Martin  rode  proudly  behind  the  team 
or  brought  nails  and  wire  at  the  endless  demand 
of  the  two  picturesque  Italians  who  had  become 
necessary  fixtures  on  the  estate,  since  the  fencing 
could  not  be  pushed  too  rapidly,  because  of  the 
neighboring  cattle  and  horses  pastured  around 
the  garden.  Myron's  corn-patch  and  the  good- 
sized  plot  he  requisitioned  for  potatoes  seemed 
enormously  larger,  viewed  as  fencable  area,  than 
they  had  at  first  appeared;  and  poor  Susy's  face, 
when  the  bills  for  woven  wire,  nails,  hinges,  picks, 
shovels,  and  fence-posts  came  in,  was  so  unaf 
fectedly  miserable  that  her  husband  was  forced 
to  make  light  of  it,  in  very  humanity.  Never 
theless,  she  held  long  consultations  on  the  subject 
with  Myron  Plummer,  and  was  greatly  relieved 
at  the  honest  fellow's  suggestion  that  he  should 
"take  them  two  Dagoes  and  go  off  and  cut  fence- 
poles  in  Hollis's  swamp." 

Mr.  Hollis,  it  appeared,  was  anxious  to  have 
his  swamp  cleared  and  drained,  and  the  posts 
were  to  be  had  for  the  merest  fraction  of  the  cost 
of  the  first  lot,  so  that  Susy  added  the  cheerful 
sense  of  accomplishing  a  business-like  stroke  of 
economy  to  the  new  list  of  experiences,  and  began 
to  read  the  articles  on  "  Intensive  Farming  "  in  the 

183 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

country  and  garden  magazines  with  an  almost 
professional  interest. 

"It's  awfully  silly,  as  Myron  says,  Tom,"  she 
explained,  "to  be  paying  out  good  money  for 
bought  fence -posts  when  we  really  live  in  the 
country  and  have  only  to  cut  them.  And  Myron 
isn't  afraid  of  work." 

"N-no,"  Tom  replied  thoughtfully,  "I  never 
said  that  he  was.  He's  not  afraid  of  working  the 
Italians,  either,  is  he?  He  said  he'd  only  need 
them  five  days  this  week,  and  now  it  will  certainly 
take  him  all  next  week  to  get  that  garden  ready." 

"But,  Tom,  they  were  getting  the  fence-posts 
—it  isn't  the  garden,  really." 

"But,  my  dear  child,  if  we  can't  have  a  garden 
without  fence-posts,  then  the  fence-posts  are  part 
of  the  garden,  aren't  they?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  murmured  doubtfully. 

"And  I  have  always  told  Myron  it  was  too  far 
away,  anyhow — he'll  have  to  carry  all  the  stuff 
himself,  you  know.  It  will  mean  extra  help  in 
the  spring,  always." 

"Yes;  but  now  that  he  got  that  old  farm- 
wagon  so  cheap — " 

"My  dear  girl,  if  you're  going  into  this,  you 
might  as  well  go  with  your  eyes  open!  It's  true 
the  wagon  was  cheap,  but  have  you  seen  the  bill 
for  repairing  it?  And  do  you  realize  that  he 

184 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

broke  the  entire  underpinning  of  the  phaeton  with 
all  that  woven-wire  fencing  that  they  tried  to 
haul  in  it  before  we  got  the  wagon  ?  And  the  vet's 
been  here  twice  for  Fido  for  his  knee — the  first 
time  since  we  came  out  here,  you  know.  And  1 
doubt  if  the  phaeton  has  been  properly  cleaned 
since  the  garden  was  started.  I  certainly  saw 
that  same  smudge  of  butter  on  it— 

"I  am  so  disappointed  about  the  butter,  Tom," 
Susy  interrupted,  "everybody  says  we  ought  to 
have  our  own  butter  with  a  good  cow,  but  really 
I  don't  see  how  we  can,  and  cream  enough,  too. 
Myron  says  it's  one  of  those  big  pails  twice  a 
day,  but  Mary  says  it's  all  froth,  and  he  wouldn't 
want  the  top  of  the  bucket  for  his  share!  If 
you  want  ice-cream,  I  believe  you  must  have  two 
cows,  myself.  And  yet  nobody  says  so.  I  won 
der  why?" 

"Because  they  wouldn't  get  paid  for  writing 
about  it  if  they  did,"  Tom  assured  her  promptly. 
"That's  why.  Don't  you  know  that  those  crazy 
magazines  with  goldenrod  and  sail -boats  on  the 
covers  have  to  make  money,  child?  They  have 
to  have  butter,  too.  And  how  do  they  get  it— 
from  the  money  you  pay  ?  Not  much.  They  get 
it  from  those  advertisements  you're  so  fond  of 
reading  to  me  evenings.  And  what  do  you  sup 
pose  those  advertisers  pay  for  space  for?  To 

185 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

catch  farmers  ?  Hardly.  Farmers  wouldn't  be 
farmers  if  they  could  afford  to  try  those  things— 
not  much.  They're  to  catch  you,  my  dear.  And 
what  makes  you  so  easy  ?  Why,  because  you 
think  it's  an  easy  game,  that's  all." 

"But,  Tom  dear,  that  man  that  writes  every 
month  about  how  his  place  is  doing  in  Homes 
and  Gardens  of  America  is  only  a  beginner,  and 
he  isn't  rich  at  all.  And  he  has  four  children. 
And  he  simply  used  his  common  sense,  he  says, 
and  the  children  sold  a  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  early  vegetables  this  spring  from  their  own 
greenhouse  that  they  just  ran  up  when  they 
added  the  sun  parlor  that  they  use  for  a  living- 
room." 

:'Just  ran  up,'  is  good,"  Tom  commented  sar 
donically.  "He's  a  genius,  that  fellow.  Is  he  the 
one  that  made  over  the  five  -  room  farm  -  house 
and  built  a  new  stable  and  sun  parlor  for  eleven 
hundred  dollars?" 

Susy  nodded. 

"Ah,  here  he  is!"  And  Tom  reached  for 
Homes  and  Gardens  of  America,  which  opened 
readily  at  a  marked  page,  from  which  he  read, 
following  the  marked  paragraphs  carefully: 

"We  decided  that  it  was  poor  economy  to  invest 
in  a  scrub  cow,  as  the  best  always  pays  in  the  end, 
so  purchased  a  good  one.  Our  small  lot  is  ample 

1 86 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

pasturage  for  her,  and  she  well  rewards  the  care  and 
petting  of  our  youngest  boy,  whose  especial  charge 
she  has  grown  to  be,  by  providing  us  with  a  gener 
ous  abundance  of  milk,  cream,  butter,  and  pot-cheese, 
besides  skim-milk  for  the  pigs  (cared  for  by  the  second 
daughter)  and  milk  to  sell,  which  has  already  paid 
for  our  churn,  ice-cream  freezer,  and  milk  pans, 
pails,  etc.  My  wife  takes  entire  care  of  the  milk, 
and  considers  that  her  great  gain  in  health  is  largely 
due  to  this  simple  and  pleasurable  task. 

"Well,  well,  it's  the  same  old  cow — I  suppose 
the  reason  you  never  meet  her  in  real  life  is  be 
cause  the  books  buy  up  the  supply  so  constant 
ly,"  he  philosophized.  "That's  the  kind  to  have; 
there's  no  doubt  about  it,  Toots.  All  summer  she 
lives  on  the  front-yard,  and  in  the  winter  they 
feed  her  on  the  old  magazine  covers,  I  suppose, 
for  I  never  read  of  her  eating  anything  else,  cer 
tainly!  She  just  smiles  and  hands  out  milk, 
cream,  butter,  and  eggs — well,  perhaps  not  eggs 
quite  yet,  but  that's  merely  an  oversight  on  Bur- 
bank's  part — all  the  year  round,  and  she  does 
it  from  generation  to  generation,  as  the  choir 
says,  besides.  I  tell  you,  there's  no  eight-hour 
day  for  that  cow!  And  I  notice  she  does  more 
every  year- -some  contributors,  seeking  the  coun 
try  life  for  health  and  leisure,  will  have  her  run 
ning  the  sewing-machine  soon  and  living  in  a 

187 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

window-box  on  Sixth  Avenue — eating  the  old 
geraniums  and  extra  Boston  ivy!" 

"  Tommy!" 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear,  but  you'll  see  that 
in  print  yet,  mark  my  words."  And  Tom,  who 
had  talked  himself  into  good  humor,  drew  out  his 
fountain-pen  and  cheerfully  signed  the  check  for 
a  totally  unexpected  bill  relative  to  the  hire  of  a 
team  and  wagon  for  transporting  fence-posts  from 
Hollis's  swamp  to  estate  of  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Wil- 
bour. 

"But  of  all  the  things  that  cow  will  do,  you 
can  bank  on  one  she'll  never,  never  be  guilty  of," 
he  added,  stepping  out  for  a  session  with  Myron 
over  the  ever-increasing  stable-bills,  "she'll  never 
eat  feed  in  the  winter — never!  If  there's  one 
thing  the  magazine  cow  loathes  and  detests,  it's 
winter  fodder:  she  knows  what  it  costs!" 

Susy  laughed,  and  abandoned  the  contest  till 
such  time,  she  promised  herself,  as  the  garden  ex 
penses  should  relax  a  little ;  but  her  faith  in  Myron 
tottered  slightly  when,  on  the  occasion  of  her 
explaining  somewhat  loftily  to  him  that  Tom's 
unfounded  but  persistent  fears  of  financial  deficit 
precluded  many  cows  in  winter,  the  volatile  hired 
man  shifted  his  ground,  scratched  his  head,  and 
remarked,  placidly,  that  there  was  a  good  deal  in 
that  idea,  and  that  plenty  o'  people  sold  off  every 

188 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

fall  and  bought  in  the  spring  on  precisely  that 
account. 

"But,  Myron,  you  said  that  there  was  nothing 
like  knowing  your  stock  and  bringing  it  up!"  she 
chided  him. 

"And  that's  true,  Mis'  Wilbour,  it  certainly  is," 
he  agreed,  with  conviction;  "there's  nothing  like 
it,  as  fur  as  't  goes.  Then  you  know  about  your 
milk." 

"You  know  what  it  costs,  too,  Mr.  Wilbour 
says,"  Susy  remarked  coldly,  vexed  at  her  ally's 
slipperiness. 

"Haw I  haw!  haw!"  he  roared.  "That's  so,  all 
right,  too!  He  knows  a  thing  or  two,  the  Boss 
does." 

With  a  confused  idea  that  life  grew  more  com 
plicated  and  contradictory  as  one  advanced  further 
into  its  deceiving  depths,  Susy  left  the  stable  with 
a  slow  and  thoughtful  step,  and  brightened  only 
at  the  comforting  recollection  of  her  two  black 
pigs  safely  penned  below  the  garden.  Truly 
these  humble  friends  could  not,  by  any  means,  be 
justly  entered  on  that  dreadful  column  of  figures 
to  which  Tom  added  so  remorselessly,  even  as  he 
smiled!  To  begin  with,  they  were  a  free  gift 
from  a  grateful  country-woman  for  whom  Susy, 
with  one  of  her  generous  impulses,  had  trimmed 
a  hat  in  imitation  of  one  of  her  own,  much  ad- 

189 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

mired  by  the  faded,  languid  farmer's  wife.  They 
had  appeared,  squealing  and  resentful,  in  the  back 
of  her  old  farm-wagon,  and  Myron  Plummer  had 
made  them  a  pen  near  the  new  garden  and  ap 
proved  of  them  highly.  Martin  and  Thomas  spent 
happy  hours  hanging  over  the  rough  board  fence, 
scratching  their  backs,  feeding  them  summer 
apples  and  cookies,  and  dreaming  fondly  of  the 
day  when  Hamlet,  the  larger  and  more  aggressive, 
might  be  harnessed  to  the  useless,  shiny  goat-cart. 
In  an  evil  hour  Aunt  Emma  had  written  the  boys 
a  letter  describing  a  tame  pig  of  her  childhood 
which  had  dragged  a  small  express-wagon,  and 
Martin,  undeterred  by  the  essentially  irritable 
nature  displayed  by  Hamlet  from  the  first,  never 
ceased  to  hope  that  gratitude  for  the  cookies  and 
apples  would  one  day  soften  his  hard  heart,  and 
lead  him  to  regard  the  cart  with  co  -  operative 
zeal. 

Hamlet  and  Ophelia  grew  daily  more  imposing, 
and  as  the  garden  yielded  exceptionally  well, 
considering  the  lateness  of  its  planting,  and  the 
little  calf  promised  to  rival  her  mother  in  good 
qualities,  Susy  felt  her  rural  interests  to  be  more 
than  justified,  and  confided  to  Mary,  the  cook, 
her  newest  and  most  cherished  plan  for  killing 
the  parent  pigs  in  the  autumn,  saving  two  out  of 
the  future  litter  of  piglets,  selling  the  rest,  and 

190 


HAMLET    AND    OPHELIA    SAFELY     PENNED     IN    THE    GARDEN 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT   A    BOY 

packing  away  hams  and  sausage  for  the  winter, 
after  the  enthusiastic  directions  of  a  school  friend 
in  Connecticut,  once  derided  for  her  barnyard 
interests,  but  now  eagerly  consulted.  Mary, 
around  whose  childhood  cabin  in  the  old  country 
the  pigs  had  sprung  up  almost  indigenously,  found 
nothing  unusual  or  impractical  in  this  plan,  and 
her  mistress,  delighted  with  this  good-natured 
acquiescence,  promised  her  a  small  pig  to  send 
to  her  brother-in-law  in  Harlem.  Aunt  Emma, 
who  was  as  pleased  as  surprised  at  this  turn  in 
Susy's  affairs,  agreed  with  delight  to  come  and 
assist  at  the  sausage-making,  and  offered  to  pur 
chase  the  best  of  the  litter  for  a  Thanksgiving 
treat  for  her  old  rector  in  New  York;  while  Susy's 
married  sister  engaged  two  piglings  immediately, 
and  planned  a  Thanksgi  ving  family  reunion  on 
the  strength  of  exhibiting  the  interesting  products 
of  the  Wilbour  farm. 

"And  if  we  have  one  (with  a  lemon  in  his 
mouth)  instead  of  a  turkey,  Tom,  and  I  count  the 
price  of  it  (or  shall  I  count  the  price  of  the  tur 
key? — I  never  understand  about  that  sort  of 
thing)  and  add  Aunt  Emma's  and  sister's  two, 
and  send  one  to  be  raffled  at  the  Girl's  Friendly 
sale  instead  of  the  three  dollars'  worth  of  wool 
that  I  usually  buy  for  an  afghan — and  then  can't 
I  count  in  the  time  I  would  have  spent  on  the 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

afghan,  Tom? — perhaps  you'll  admit  that  it  does 
pay!"  she  urged  breathlessly. 

"If  they  don't  go  back  on  their  bargains,  and 
if  they  pay  the  express,  and  if  you  don't  steal 
Myron's  time  to  attend  to  it  (it's  an  awful  job, 
Toots,  and,  I  warn  you,  you're  crazy  to  think  of  it : 
do  you  know  how  they  squeal  ?  You  have  to 
have  a  big  kettle  and  a  whole  paraphernalia,  you 
know — are  you  going  to  buy  it  ?)  why,  then,  I 
admit  it's  all  right,"  he  answered  doubtfully,  "ex 
cept  that  it's  a  little  red  apple  you  put  in  their 
mouth — not  a  lemon  at  all." 

"How  absurd!     We  always  had— 

"Now,  Susy,  any  one  who  can't  tell  a  cruller 
from  a  doughnut  is  incapable,  on  the  face  of  it, 
of  judging  in  any  such  matter  as  this,"  he  reproved 
her  gravely.  "Connecticut  is  just  full  and  run 
ning  over  with  these  misapprehensions,  and  it's 
no  more  than  I  should  expect  from  you  —  not 
a  bit!  But  I  can't  have  the  children's  minds 
poisoned:  if  we  have  the  pig,  it  must  be  a  red 
apple." 

But  the  summer  waxed,  and  seemed  in  danger 
of  waning,  without  the  expected  pigs,  and  they 
existed  in  Susy's  neat  blue  leather  account-book 
alone  ;  though  BrinkerhofTs  unnumbered  vowed 
to  attend  the  Thanksgiving  banquet,  and  Mrs. 
Wilbour's  unique  contribution  to  the  Girl's 

194 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

Friendly  sale  stirred  up  such  an  interest  in  the 
proposed  raffle  that  the  curate  of  her  old  parish 
took  the  matter  to  heart  and  actually  preached 
a  moving  sermon  against  the  practice  at  an  un 
usually  well-attended  evening  service,  so  that  the 
suburb  where  most  of  her  girlhood  had  been  passed 
was  brought  to  a  pitch  of  real  excitement,  and  the 
ladies  of  the  various  church  organizations,  all  of 
which  counted  to  a  greater  or  less  extent  upon 
their  annual  fetes  and  sales,  formed  bitter  factions 
for  and  against  the  gambling  system  brought  into 
such  unclerical  prominence  by  the  yet  invisible 
offspring  of  the  unconscious  Ophelia. 

Susy  would  have  undoubtedly  before  this  dis 
cussed  her  plans  with  Myron  Plummer  but  for 
two  reasons:  in  the  first  place,  she  considered  the 
hired  man  to  be  greatly  in  need  of  discipline  for 
what  she  began  to  believe  to  be  his  deceptive 
course  of  action  in  regard  to  the  garden.  Having 
gained  this  wish  of  his  heart,  he  had  practically 
deserted  the  house  and  stable  except  for  the  most 
necessary  "chores":  the  phaeton  no  longer  glis 
tened  like  the  sun ;  the  lawn  grew  rank  and  weedy ; 
cousin  Albert,  who  had  begun  under  persistent 
starvation  and  hard  work  at  hauling  stone  in  a 
stone-boat  in  the  new  pasture,  to  approximate  the 
meekness  of  spirit  necessary  for  a  children's  pet, 
was  ruthlessly  torn  from  them  at  this  most  in- 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

teresting  step  and  kept  at  hard  labor  in  the  garden ; 
the  Italian  was  found  increasingly  necessary  as 
window-washer,  disposer  of  garbage,  and  deputy 
performer  of  odd  jobs;  and  altogether  Tom's 
many  prophecies  seemed  so  nearly  in  danger  of 
fulfilment  that  Susy  somewhat  illogically  chose 
to  consider  Myron  unworthy  her  confidence.  She 
quite  forgot  for  a  while  that  unless  she  could  en 
list  his  sympathy  and  practical  superintendence 
in  the  disposal  of  so  many  porklings  (for  by 
August  all  of  her  friends  were  bidding  furiously 
against  each  other  for  headcheese,  pickled 
trotters,  Brinkerhoff  -  recipe  sausages,  and  pink 
baby  roasters)  the  extra  labor  involved  would 
certainly  eat  into  the  profits  to  an  alarming  ex 
tent,  and  it  was  only  the  gradual  realization  of 
this  that  led  her  to  swallow  her  pride  and  seek 
him  out  with  a  view  to  eliciting  his  opinion  as  to 
when  she  ought  to  expect  to  be  able  to  fulfil  her 
pledges. 

But,  and  this  was  the  second  reason  for  her 
delay,  it  was  becoming  increasingly  difficult  to 
see  Myron  at  all.  He  was  either  buried  in  his 
garden  or  at  his  meals  or  asleep,  and  any  one  of 
these  occupations  was  understood,  by  a  subtle 
but  perfectly  definite  system  of  rules,  to  shroud 
him  in  privacy  and  immunity  from  disturbance. 
Tom  laughed  scornfully  when  these  rules  were  re- 

196 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

ferred  to,  but  had  never  been  observed  to  break 
them,  and  Bell,  the  usual  messenger,  had  dis 
tinctly  refused  to  infringe  in  the  slightest  degree 
upon  the  system;  so  that  it  was  only  at  the  pa 
thetic  request  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  St.  Agnes 
that  they  might  be  put  in  a  position  to  name 
the  date  of  their  autumn  bazaar,  now  unduly 
advertised  because  of  the  triumphantly  sustained 
pig -raffle,  that  Susy  made  a  definite  appoint 
ment  with  her  hired  man,  and  in  consideration 
of  allowing  the  Italian  deputy  to  harness  Fido 
and  drive  Tom  to  the  station,  was  at  length 
enabled  to  meet  him,  very  appropriately,  by  the 
pig-sty. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  Myron  had  distinctly 
deteriorated.  His  blue  jumpers  were  stained  and 
torn,  his  old  shoes  tied  together  with  twine,  his 
beard  was  stubbly,  and  he  smelled,  among  other 
things,  of  beer.  Moreover,  he  did  not  seem  so 
anxious  to  please  her  as  he  had  been  wont,  and 
her  plan  of  remarking  on  the  untidiness  of  the 
stable  and  the  unprecedented  requirements  in  the 
way  of  garden  implements  faded  into  an  attitude 
of  positive  conciliation,  in  view  of  the  extra  labor 
soon  to  be  his. 

"I  wanted  to  know  what  you  thought  of  the 
pigs,  Myron,"  she  began,  indicating  Hamlet  and 
Orphelia,  who  rooted  morosely  in  the  mucky 

197 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT   A    BOY 

depths,  turning  over  bits  of  lemon  peel  and  peach 
pits  scornfully,  and  refusing  the  least  appearance 
of  interest  in  their  proprietress. 

"Them  pigs?  They're  doin'  well  enough,  as 
far  as  I  can  see,"  returned  Myron  Plumrner  short 
ly.  "Those  late  potatoes  '11  never  come  up  in 
the  world,  unless  he'll  let  me  rig  up  a  pump  from 
Hollis's  brook,  an'- 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  I  wanted  to  talk  about  the 
pigs,  Myron.  You  know  Mr.  Wilbour  has  hardly 
seen  them  since  they  came,  and  I  must  take  all 
the  responsibility." 

"There  ain't  much  responsibility  to  pigs  but 
takin'  their  swill  to  'em,"  he  observed,  "an'  they 
get  that  regular,  though  it's  a  good  deal  to  ask 
of  one  man,  with  a  horse  an'  garden  to  at 
tend  to." 

Susy  repressed  a  number  of  possible  replies, 
and  continued  sweetly: 

"But  why  don't  they  have  any  little  pigs, 
Myron  ?  Miss  Emma  says  it  is  time  they  did, 
and  I've  promised  her  one.  And  several  other 
people,  too." 

"You  promised  Miss  Emma  a  pig  from  them  ?" 
he  demanded,  staring  at  her,  roused  from  his 
apathy  at  last. 

"Yes,  my  friend  in  Connecticut  told  me  they 
never  had  less  than — " 

198 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 


"They'll  never  have  none,"  he  assured  her 
briefly. 

"None?  Why,  Myron,  what  do  you  suppose 
I  took  them  for  and  bought  all  that  feed  in  the 
spring?" 

' '  I  dunno.  You  never  told  me  you  were  lookin' 
for  any,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"But — but — why,  I  thought  if  you  had  a  pair 
of  pigs,  they  always  had  other  pigs!"  Susy  cried 
faintly. 

Myron  spat  forth  a  stream  of  tobacco,  and 
smiled  coldly. 

"So  they  do,  but  not 
when  they're  brothers, 
as  a  gen'ral  thing,"  he 
said  briefly ;  ' '  you'd  orter 
'a'  mentioned  it  before, 
I  sh'd  'a'  thought." 

' '  Have  they  always 
been — I  mean,  did  you 
always  know  ..."  Susy 
sighed  helplessly. 

"I  guess  they  hain't 
changed  much,  Miss 
Wilbour,  sence  they 
come,"  he  remarked, 
and  the  contempt  in  his 
tone,  though  unveiled, 

199 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

seemed  to  poor  Susy  only  just,  and  she  watched 
him  turn  on  his  heel  without  a  murmur. 

"Only,  how  shall  I  ever  tell  the  Little  Sis 
ters  of  St.  Agnes?"  she  wailed  softly  — "and 
Tom!" 


VII 


WHICH    DEALS    WITH    OUR    COMMON    NEIGHBORS 
AND    HOW   TO    KNOW    THEM 


USY  turned  sadly  from  the  uncon 
scious  and  misnamed  Ophelia,  an 
angry  flush  growing  deeper  and 
deeper  in  her  cheeks  as  the  humili 
ating  truth  of  her  position  grew 

clearer  and  clearer  to  her. 

"Horrid   thing!"    she   murmured   impatiently; 

' '  what  difference  would  it  have  made  to  her  which 

she  was,  anyway!     I'll  just  have  to  buy  the  St. 

Agnes  girls  a  pig,  now.     But  Sis  and  Aunt  Emma 

—oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?     Sis  will  tell  everybody ;   I 

know  she  will!" 

"Does  he  want  I  sh'd  keep  on  feedin'  all  the 

stock  with  oats?" 

201 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    Of  A    BOY 

A  gloomy  and  somewhat  argumentative  voicx 
at  her  elbow  startled  her. 

"Oats?     Oats?"  she  repeated  vaguely. 

"There's  five  head  o'  stock  into  that  pasture 
now,  and  no  rain  for  three  weeks,"  Myron  went  on 
sourly.  "/  d'no  what  to  give  'em,  if  not  oats. 
'Taint  enough  pasture,  anyhow  you  look  at  it. 
But  he  kicks  at  the  feed-bills,  and  I  got  t'  get 
some  more  bags  t'-day.  /  d'no  what  he  thinks 
they're  goin'  to  live  on.  That  goat  eats  enough 
for  two." 

"We  should  never  have  kept  that  goat,"  Susy 
said  with  dignity,  "but  since  we  did  so,  he  must 
be  fed,  of  course." 

"Oh,  all  right — it  don't  make  no  difference  to 
me,"  Myron  replied;  "it's  yours  an'  his  business. 
But  I  jist  thought  I'd  speak  of  it,  since  oats  is 
gone  up,  anyhow.  It  would  'a'  paid  to  'a'  had 
more  pasture." 

"But  we  bought  all  that  land,  Myron,"  she  re 
minded  him. 

"You  bought  fer  the  garden  an'  pasture,"  he 
returned  implacably,  "and  now  he  won't  fence  in 
but  the  garden,  really,  'cause  that  bit  o'  pasture 
ain't  anything  to  call  pasture,  you  might  say. 
An'  I  needed  more  for  corn,  anyhow." 

"But,  Myron,  how  could  we  possibly  use  any 
more  corn?" 

202 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"It's  just  as  well  to  plant  a  little  more  as  not 
to,"  he  persisted,  chewing  a  straw  obstinately, 
"and  anybody  '11  tell  ye  so.  If  you're  going  to 
have  a  garden,  y'  might's  well  have  one." 

Susy  walked  away  from  him  in  silence,  too 
vexed  and  discouraged  for  any  further  discussion. 

"I  am  very  much  disappointed  in  Myron 
Plummer,"  she  confided  to  Drabble  and  Lappy, 
who  by  dint  of  stolidly  attaching  themselves  to 
her  and  following  her  everywhere  had  succeeded 
in  winning  a  grudging  but  definite  place  in  her 
affection.  "I  can't  think  why  I  used  to  like  him 
so  much — he's  perfectly  horrid." 

She  walked  up  from  the  stable,  slowly,  because 
of  the  heat,  passing  carelessly  under  the  pergola, 
a  white-pillared  reality  now,  with  its  vines  well 
started — once  the  chief  pride  of  her  soul,  but  less 
interesting,  somehow,  now  that  it  was  a  fact  ac 
complished.  Along  the  quaint  path  of  "herring- 
boned"  red  brick,  by  the  sweet-peas,  fragrant  on 
their  neat  brush  screen,  past  the  flowery  nas 
turtiums,  crawling  like  smoldering  fire  over  the 
bit  of  old  stone  wa  1  that  Tom  had  cleverly  kept 
standing  for  them,  the  mistress  of  all  this  warm 
bloom  and  well-kept  sweetness  walked  dispiritedly. 

"Some  one  will  have  to  pick  all  those  flowers," 
she  complained  softly  to  the  spotty  dogs,  "and 
we  were  so  afraid  they  wouldn't  grow,  once!" 

203 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

Drabble  and  Lappy  sniffed  suddenly  and 
growled  a  little.  A  strange  dog — a  Boston  bull 
pup  —  was  sitting  on  the  broad  veranda  steps 
regarding  them  with  the  cynical  malevolence 
peculiar  to  that  species. 

"Whose  dog  are  you?  (Be  still,  Drabble — get 
down,  Lappy!)  Somebody  must  have  come," 
she  murmured,  not  too  hospitably,  and,  calling  to 
Martin  to  keep  the  peace  on  the  veranda,  slipped 
in  by  the  side  porch  for  a  furtive  glance  at  her 
hair  in  the  sideboard  mirror. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  dining-room  she  paused 
in  amazement.  Across  the  room,  on  his  knees 
before  a  corner  cupboard  of  mahogany,  from 
whose  open  doors  poured  a  river  of  blue-and- white 
china,  there  squatted  a  plump  gentleman  whose 
back,  at  least,  was  entirely  unknown  to  her. 
Though  not  to  be  called  fat,  he  verged,  neverthe 
less,  on  plumpness,  and  as  he  delved  busily  among 
the  platters  and  ginger-jars  in  the  lower  half  of 
the  corner  cupboard  he  puffed  audibly.  His  hat 
lay  beside  him;  seen  from  the  rear,  he  exhibited 
all  the  attitudes  of  some  celebrant  of  a  strange 
religious  ceremony. 

For  a  moment  Susy  trembled,  her  throat  con 
tracted  for  a  scream,  her  legs  bent  for  flight ;  but 
even  as  she  wavered  in  the  doorway  it  occurred 
to  her  that  it  was  not  the  course  of  a  sneak-thief 

204 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

to  establish  a  palpably  strange  bull  pup  at  the 
front  door  of  the  house  of  his  selection,  nor  to 
pitch  upon  the  middle  of  a  warm  summer  after 
noon  to  look  over  old  china  in  a  suburban  dining- 
room.  The  cheerful  clatter  in  the  kitchen  behind 
her,  the  bright  sunshine  all  about  her,  strengthened 
her  nerves,  and,  advancing  a  few  steps,  she  clinch 
ed  her  hands  securely  and  addressed  the  kneeling 
stranger  with  a  fair  degree  of  firmness. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?  Who  are  you?" 
she  demanded. 

The  man  hitched  about  awkwardly  on  his 
knees,  disclosing  a  pair  of  brown,  short-sighted 
eyes  behind  nose-glasses,  a  roundish,  clever  face, 
and  a  smooth-shaven,  combative  chin. 

"He  looks  like  the  bulldog!"  Susy  thought 
parenthetically. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  T.  B.  Wilbour?"  he  asked  in  a 
crisp,  hectoring  voice,  quite  as  if  he  expected  to 
bring  his  hostess  to  book  and  rather  enjoyed  the 
job.  "I've  been  waiting  over  an  hour,  and  as 
my  time  is  fairly  valuable,  I  decided  to  lose  no 
more  of  it." 

"I  am  Mrs.  Wilbour,  yes,"  Susy  answered  cold 
ly.  "May  I  ask  what  you  are  doing  with  my 
china?" 

The  man  laughed  abruptly;  not  in  the  least  a 
pleasant  or  a  humorous  laugh,  but  such  a  laugh 

205 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 


as  may  be  heard  almost  any  night  in  the  theatre 
when  intense  and  biting  irony  must  be  conveyed 
to  the  farthest  seats  in  the  topmost  gallery. 

"Very  good!"  he  exclaimed,  "very  good,  in 
deed!  Ha,  ha!" 

Then,  as  she  stared  at  him  in  unconcealed  sur- 
206 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

prise,  he  spoke  again,  still  kneeling,  and  meeting 
her  eye  with  an  intentional  firmness  which  seemed, 
somehow,  to  put  her  curiously  in  the  wrong. 

"When  I  tell  you  that  my  name  is  Carmichael, 
M.  Carmichael,"  he  said  with  meaning,  "you  may 
possibly  find  yourself  enlightened,  madam." 

Susy  shook  her  head  vaguely,  in  such  unmis 
takable  stupidity  and  sincerity  that  the  man 
pointed  a  small  willowware  tea-cup  reprovingly 
at  her  in  his  irritation. 

"Come,  come!"  he  cried,  "do  you  mean  to  say 
that  the  name  Carmichael  conveys  no  association 
to  your  mind?" 

Across  Susy's  memory  flashed  the  old  rhyme: 

"  There  was  Mary  Seaton  and  Mary  Beaton, 
And  Mary  Carmichael  and  me — " 

She  would  have  ceased  to  be  Susan  Wilbour  had 
she  not  giggled  suddenly  at  the  idea. 

But  this  little  bubble  of  laughter  proved  too 
much  for  her  guest's  self-control. 

"Ah!"  he  snapped  out  angrily,  "I  see  you  do  re 
member,  after  all !  Now  perhaps  you  will  tell  me 
what  you  have  done  with  my  furniture,  madam!" 

"Your  furniture?" 

Susy  tried  to  be  serious,  but  the  effort  was  too 
great,  the  little,  irritable  man  too  funny.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  he  was  not  crazy — he  was,  as 

207 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Or    A    BOY 

she  expressed  it  afterward,  just  like  anybody  else, 
only  crosser.  A  more  imaginative  woman  would 
undoubtedly  have  begun  to  consider  the  possi 
bility,  at  least,  of  being  frightened,  but  Susy  was 
not  given  to  fearing  the  worst,  and  her  instinct 
assured  her  that  the  extraordinary  gentleman  now 
on  his  knees  before  her  was  as  sane  as  herself. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  you  are  talking 
about,"  she  said  at  length,  choking  back  another 
hysterical  giggle — "the  only  furniture  we  have  is 
our  own." 

' '  Indeed !"  he  returned  ironically.  ' '  Then  where 
have  you  disposed  of  what  you  found  in  my  house 
when  you  moved  into  it  three  years  ago,  may  I 
ask?" 

Susy's  face  fell;  a  conscious  blush  rose  slowly 
to  her  forehead. 

' '  Why — are  you  the — were  you  the — -was  it  you 
that—" 

Mr.  Carmichael  rose  triumphantly  from  his 
knees  and  dusted  them  with  marked  neatness. 

"My  family  has  owned  that  farm  for  three 
generations,"  he  said.  "This  property  originally 
belonged  to  them,  too." 

Susy  glanced  hastily  around  as  if  expecting  to 
find  M.  Carmichael  written  on  the  walls. 

"But — but  the  liveryman  told  us  a  Mrs.  Brun- 
dage  lived  there,"  she  began  hesitatingly.  "We 

208 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

wrote  to  her,  but  it  came  back  from  the  dead- 
letter  office." 

"She  was  in  Australia,"  said  Mr.  Carmichael. 
"She  died  there  last  year.  Mrs.  Brundage  was 
my  old  nurse,  and  lived  in  my  house  during  the 
three  years  my  family  and  I  spent  in  Europe. 
She  was  a  very  worthy  woman,"  he  continued 
severely,  "but  unbusinesslike,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
and  we  did  not  learn  till  last  year  that  she  had 
left  to  join  her  son  in  New  South  Wales.  The 
liveryman  is  a  new-comer  here;  anybody  else 
could  have  told  you  who  owned  the  Carmichael 
place." 

"Er — won't  you  sit  down?"  Susy  suggested  un 
comfortably.  "I — we  were  sorry  about  the  fur 
niture,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped  very  well.  We 
described  the  place  carefully  to  the  man  that 
moved  us,  and  then  when  we  got  here  it  was 
wrong.  I'm  afraid  he  was  rather  rough  with 
them — he  was  vexed  to  find  so  much  more  than 
my  husband  told  him  there  would  be — we  wrote 
and  offered  to  do  anything  we  could,  but  most  of 
the  things  were  so  old— 

"Old!"  Mr.  Carmichael  exclaimed  angrily,  "I 
should  say  they  were  old,  indeed!  That  was 
family  furniture,  madam— heirlooms !  Absolutely 
unreplacable,  much  of  it.  And  do  I  understand 
that  it  has  been  destroyed?" 
14  209 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Susy  with  dignity,  a  dis 
gusted  recollection  of  the  bamboo  easel  and  the 
Rogers'  group,  not  to  speak  of  Niagara  by  Moon 
light,  hardening  her  heart — "not  at  all,  Mr.  Car- 
michael.  We  put  back  everything.  As  soon  as 
we  found  that  they  had  moved  us  wrong— 

"Moved  you  wrong!"  he  interrupted  irascibly. 
"What  an  absurd  affair!  And  where  were  you, 
pray,  while  the  moving  was  going  on  ?  You  were 
there,  I  suppose  ?  You  knew  it  was  not  the  farm 
you  had  bought?" 

"I — we — they  didn't  require  ...  I  was  at 
Buffalo  Bill!"  she  explained  shamefacedly. 

"Buffalo  Bill!"  he  cried  furiously.  "Why,  in 
the  name  of  everything  sensible,  were  you  at 
Buffalo  Bill  when  you  were  moving?" 

"They  were  exceptional  movers,"  poor  Susy 
murmured. 

"So  it  appears,"  he  said  acidly.  "They  evi 
dently  moved  my  furniture  very  thoroughly.  It 
is  only  fair  to  inform  you,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  that  I 
shall  bring  suit  for  damages  immediately.  Though 
I  no  longer  believe  that  you  disposed  of  the  furni 
ture  yourselves,"  he  added  abruptly  —  "I  have 
been  over  the  house  sufficiently." 

Susy  swallowed  hard. 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  stealing  furniture," 
she  said  with  what  she  hoped  was  dignity,  "but 

2IO 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

if  I  were,  Mr.  Carmichael,  I  shouldn't  begin  with 
what  we  found  in  the  Brundage  house,  I  assure 
you.  They  may  be  valuable  to  you,  but  I'm 
afraid  very  few  people  will  agree  with  you.  I 
think  my  husband  still  has  the  letter  the  moving 
people  wrote  him  when  he  told  them  they  would 
be  responsible  for  any  damage  to  the  things  they 
threw  out  into  the  barn.  They  said  that  they 
were  perfectly  willing  to  be  responsible  for  their 
own  mistake,  but  that,  as  far  as  damage  went, 
those  were  hard  things  to  damage.  That  bamboo 
easel,  for  instance,  was  very  shaky  before— 

"Bamboo  easel!"  cried  Mr.  Carmichael  furiously 
—"bamboo  grandmother!" 

Susy  started  backward ;  the  man  literally  jumped 
at  her.  But  even  in  his  excitement  she  observed 
that  he  carefully  jumped  over  the  blue-and- white 
china. 

"That  hideous  truck  is  none  of  it  mine,  madam 
— as  you  know  perfectly  well!"  he  stormed. 
' '  Where  is  my  furniture  ?  Where  is  the  Car 
michael  sideboard  ?  Where  are  the  Moreland 
prints  ?  Where  is  the  hall  seat  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  that — that  the  things  weren't 
yours?"  Susy  asked  wonderingly.  "Whose  were 
they,  then?" 

The  little  man  spun  around,  on  the  tips  of  his 
toes,  literally,  with  rage. 

211 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Good  God!"  he  spluttered,  "do  you  suppose 
that  I  know  whose  they  are,  if  you  don't  ?  I  never 
saw  such  horrors  in  my  life!  I  suppose  you'd  say 
next  that  that  picture  of  Niagara  by  Moonlight  is 
mine!" 

"It  certainly  isn't  ours,"  Susy  returned  with 
some  irritation,  "and  I  don't  know  why  you 
should  take  it  for  granted  that  we  know  anything 
about  it,  anyhow.  Everything  was  moved  back 
exactly  where  it  was  found — my  nurse  has  a  very 
good  memory,  and  she  superintended  it — as  soon 
as  we  discovered  that  we  were  in  the  wrong  house. 
I  moved  a  great  many  of  the  things  myself,  so  I 
know.  I  never  saw  them  before  or  since — I'm 
happy  to  say,"  she  added  viciously. 

Mr.  Carmichael  grasped  his  hair  with  both 
hands,  just  as  Signor  Caruso  does  when  'operatic 
exigencies  drive  him  to  despair.  Susy  felt  really 
sorry  for  him. 

"Bell!"  she  called,  stepping  to  the  door  (and 
the  rapidity  with  which  the  faithful  girl  appeared 
indicated  her  interest  in  the  situation),  "will  you 
please  explain  to  this  gentleman  what  sort  of 
furniture  you  found  in  the  Brundage  house  when 
we  moved  there?" 

"You  mean  them  grayish  sort  of  portraits  of 
the  old  gentleman  and  lady,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  and 
the  jointed  yellow  chairs  that  was  broke,  and  the 

212 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

waterfall  that  Mr.  Wilbour  thought  looked  better 
sideways,  and — " 

"There,  there — that's  enough!"  said  Mr.  Car- 
michael  nervously.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  there  was  no  Chippendale  sideboard  in  the 
dining-room?" 

"All  the  things  were  chipped,"  Bell  replied 
promptly.  "I  passed  the  remark  to  the  old  man 
that  was  moving — he  complained  a  good  deal  of 
what  was  there — that  it  was  no  wonder  the  folks 
didn't  care  what  become  of  them.  That  group  of 
statuary,  now,  that  was  sort  of  light-brown  color, 
with  the  lady  and  the  baby  and  the  boy  with  the 
basket,  that  was  'specially  nicked.  If  Mr.  Brund- 
age  thinks  we  nicked  it,  he's  mistaken."  And  she 
looked  coldly  at  the  heap  of  china  on  the  floor. 

"There  is  no  Mr.  Brundage,"  their  visitor  in 
formed  her  gloomily,  "he  died  before  you  were 
born.  And  I  wish  that  infernal  Rogers  group 
had  smashed  before  I  laid  my  eyes  on  it!" 

Bell  looked  inquiringly  at  her  mistress,  and 
Susy  began  to  explain,  while  Mr.  Carmichael  sank 
into  Tom's  carving-chair,  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"This  gentleman  is  Mr.  Carmichael,  Bell,  and 
Mrs.  Brundage  was  his  old  nurse.  But  she  went 
to  Australia,  and — and  now  he  can't  find  his 
things,"  Susy  ended,  none  too  lucidly,  but  with 
a  firm  trust  in  Bell's  comprehension. 

213 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Then  maybe  the  nurse  took  'em  to  Australia," 
Bell  suggested  promptly. 

Susy  glanced  hopefully  at  Mr.  Carmichael,  but 
he  only  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said  shortly.  "In  the  first 
place,  she  wouldn't  want  them.  In  the  second 
place,  she  was  devoted  to  us,  and  she  knew  how 
we  valued  them.  She  was  put  in  the  house  as 
caretaker.  In  the  third  place,  I  happen  to  know 
what  she  took  to  Australia,  for  I  sent  on  her 
things  myself.  Before  we  left,  I  had  her  store  all 
her  property  in  the  barn,  and  when  we  got  the 
letter  last  year  that  she  had  started  suddenly,  on 
the  news  of  her  brother's  wife's  death  there,  and 
never  expected  to  come  back,  I  wrote  to  a  New 
York  firm  and  had  them  pack  all  her  stuff  and 
send  it  out  after  her.  I  know  that  she  took  noth 
ing  but  a  steamer-trunk,  for  the  postmaster  told 
me  so ;  and  I  know  that  everything  was  cleaned 
out  of  the  barn,  because  the  bill  was  very  large— 
but  the  man  gave  it  especial  care,  he  said,  and 
packed  all  the  large  pieces  separately.  I  have  his 
receipts  and  the  freight-receipts  from  Australia. 
His  name  was  Slide." 

"Of    Slide    &    Bumpus?"   Susy  cried    breath 
lessly. 

"Why,  yes,  I  believe  that  was  the  firm,"  said 
Mr.  Carmichael. 

214 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"It  was  Mr.  Bumpus  that  moved  us!"  she  gasp 
ed.  "Isn't  that  strange!" 

"It's  all  strange,"  he  agreed  wearily,  "all  very 
strange,  indeed !  Everybody  seems  very  business 
like  and  clear  from  blame — but  where  is  my  furni 
ture?  Brundage  got  hers,  you  have  yours;  I 
have  proof  that  Slide  only  took  out  of  the  town 
what  corresponds  to  the  freight-receipts.  What 
became  of  mine  ?  Who  brought  all  that  rickety 
lumber  and  stuck  it  about  in  my  house?" 

He  looked  helplessly  from  one  to  the  other, 
but  they  could  only  shake  their  heads. 

"Did  you  write  to  Mrs.  Brundage?"  Bell  asked 
at  length. 

"The  poor  old  lady  never  read  it,"  he  answered; 
' '  she  died  very  soon  after  she  got  there.  But  her 
brother  wrote  me  a  very  good  letter,  thanking 
me  for  the  things,  which  came  in  very  useful,  he 
said.  So  I  know  they  got  theirs.  I  took  the 
entire  charge  of  them,  you  see.  They  filled  the 
barn,  nearly,  Slide  wrote  me.  Brundage  left  her 
well  off,  I  suppose." 

Bell  put  the  end  of  her  apron  into  her  mouth 
and  chewed  it  vigorously,  a  habit  which  always 
accompanied  unusual  mental  excitement  with  her. 

"Would  that  brother  know  what  her  things 
looked  like?"  she  demanded. 

' '  I  don't  know  ...  he  hardly  could,  though,  for 
215 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

he  moved  to  New  South  Wales  when  he  was  a  mere 
lad,  now  I  think  of  it,  long  before  Brundage  mar 
ried,"  Mr.  Carmichael  replied,  far  from  resenting 
this  catechism  it  seemed,  and  only  grateful,  ap 
parently,  for  the  interest  it  implied. 

"Then  do  you  know  what  I  think?"  Bell  burst 
out,  cramming  quite  an  appreciable  proportion  of 
her  apron  into  her  mouth,  and  articulating  with 
a  corresponding  elocutionary  effect. 

' '  No.  What  ?"  Mr.  Carmichael  responded  dully. 
He  seemed  beyond  theorizing  himself,  so  dazed 
had  the  facts  left  him. 

"I  believe,"  Bell  announced  triumphantly, 
"that  Mrs.  Brundage  was  living  with  her  own 
furniture  all  along,  and  stored  your  things  in  the 
barn,  unbeknown  to  you,  and  that  it  was  them 
you  had  boxed  and  sent  to  the  brother!  And  if 
she  left  hurried,  she  never  had  time  to  change 
'em!  And  the  brother  never  knew!" 

"And  these  things  are  hers!"  Susy  added  eager 
ly,  "the  crayons  and  Niagara  and  the  bamboo 
chairs." 

Mr.  Carmichael  stared  at  Bell  as  at  an  oracle; 
his  short-sighted  eyes  positively  started  from  their 
sockets. 

"Then  my  furniture — my  sideboard — my  hall 
seat — my  Morlands — are  in  Australia!"  he  moaned. 

"I'll  bet  you  a  dollar  they  are!"  the  nurse  an- 
216 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

swered,  pursing  her  lips  —  from  which  she  re 
moved  the  apron — firmly. 

"Heavens  above!"  said  Mr.  Carmichael. 

The  two  women  maintained  a  sympathetic  si 
lence;  even  Bell's  loquacity  failed  before  such 
misfortune.  The  very  sounds  from  the  kitchen 
had  ceased,  and  they  regarded  each  other  in  the 
midst  of  an  unnatural  quiet,  which  was  broken 
suddenly  by  the  irritable  bleat  of  Mildred,  tethered 
near  the  house  for  the  purpose  of  cropping  the 
lower  lawn.  As  the  goat's  flat,  discontented  cry 
shivered  across  to  them,  Mr.  Carmichael  drew  his 
hand  over  his  forehead. 

"Brundage  has  a  sheep-ranch  in  Australia,"  he 
remarked  bitterly.  "Perhaps  he  keeps  the  wool 
in  my  carved  oak  wedding-chests!" 

They  shook  their  heads  respectfully,  and  again 
silence  fell.  Now  a  gentle  rattling  was  heard  and 
the  crack  of  a  whip,  and  presently  a  loud,  long 
bray  announced  that  Cousin  Albert  was  at  the 
kitchen  door  with  his  load  of  vegetables  from  the 
garden.  Mr.  Carmichael  drew  a  heavy,  sighing 
breath. 

"Poor  old  Brundage!"  he  said  sadly.  "She 
used  to  drive  me  in  a  donkey-cart." 

It  occurred  to  Susy  that  the  associations  of 
their  home  were  not  likely,  at  this  rate,  to  raise 
their  guest's  spirits,  and  she  began  to  pick  up 

217 


THE    BIOGRAPNY    Of    A    BOY 

the  china  briskly,  motioning  Bell,  .whose  sym 
pathetic  nature  was  fast  sinking  into  gloom,  to 
help  her. 

"Of  course,  you  know,  Mr.  Carmichael,  Bell's 
idea  may  be  entirely  wrong,"  she  began,  "and 
your  things  may  be  somewhere  else.  We  can't 
be  sure." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Wilbour,"  he  said  solemnly, 
"there  is  no  more  doubt  in  my  mind  at  this  mo 
ment  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  that  furniture  than 
—than — oh,  well,  there's  no  doubt  about  it  at  all! 
That's  why  Slide  wrote  that  the  pieces  were  heavy 
and  difficult  to  crate — of  course  they  were !  There 
were  four  pine -apple  beds  and  an  enormous 
mahogany  dining  -  table.  Those  wedding  -  chests 
alone —  Well,  well,  I  must  get  right  back  and 
tell  Mrs.  Carmichael.  She'll  feel  terribly — ter 
ribly.  I  really  don't  know  how  she'll  take  it- 
she's  not  as  self-possessed  as  I  am,  you  know- 
not  nearly!  More  excitable.  Dear,  dear,  dear!" 

He  bustled  about  the  room  nervously,  alter 
nately  clapping  his  straw  hat  on  his  head  and  re 
moving  it,  while  the  two  women  watched  him 
curiously.  It  seemed,  somehow,  that  they  had 
known  Mr.  Carmichael  a  long  time. 

Nor  did  this  impression  fade  on  making  the 
further  acquaintance  of  his  family.  Mrs.  Car 
michael  was  a  merry,  bird-like  little  person,  equal- 

218 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 


ly  at  home  in  lodgings  in  Vienna,  a  house-boat  on 
the  Hudson,  an  Adirondack  camp,  or  a  country 
farm-house.  Their  little  daughter  Ursula  had 
lived  in  all  these  places,  and  of  her  six  years  no 
two  had  been  passed  in  the  same  surroundings. 
She,  like  her  mother,  was  an  ardent  Christian 
Scientist,  and  was  first  seen  by  Tom  and  Susy  on 
the  occasion  of  their  initial  call  gravely  spelling 
out  from  the  somewhat  cryptic  volume  of  that 
faith  dark  sentences  directed  to  the  healing  of  a 
large  yellow  An 
gora  cat, who  lay 
coughing  and 
choking  doleful 
ly  beside  her.  To 
any  one  accus 
tomed  to  his  spe 
cies,  it  was  per 
fectly  evident 
that  he  was  suf 


fering  from  an  accumulation  of  hair -balls,  due 
to  an  unreasonable  attention  to  his  toilet,  but 
the  teaspoonful  of  butter  recommended  by  Susy, 

219 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

who  had  extended  first  aid  to  the  injured  for 
many  years  to  just  such  a  cat  in  her  sister's 
house,  was  received  with  such  scorn  that  the 
visitors  fled  hastily  to  the  veranda,  where  wicker 
furniture,  light  grass-rugs  and  cool  awnings  strove 
to  mitigate  the  interior  decorations  now  known 
as  "poor  Brundage's  horrors."  Now  that  they 
were  thus  classified,  strangely  enough,  they  ceased 
to  annoy  the  Carmichaels,  who,  released  from  any 
responsibility  in  connection  with  them,  began  to 
find  them  more  amusing  than  otherwise,  and 
pointed  them  out,  with  a  variety  of  interested 
comment,  to  their  guests. 

Mr.  Carmichael  was  engaged,  though  not,  as 
Tom  remarked,  to  the  point  of  nervous  prostra 
tion  by  any  means,  in  the  fire-insurance  business. 
It  was  evidently  not  an  exigent  occupation,  for  it 
left  him  free  to  spend  most  of  his  time  in  scouring 
the  country  in  quest  of  old  furniture,  for  which 
he  had  the  scent  of  a  bloodhound,  unearthing 
choice  bits  from  the  most  unlikely  places,  and  re 
storing  them,  in  a  completely  equipped  carpenter's 
shop  which  he  had  established  in  the  barn,  with 
the  skill  of  a  cabinet-maker.  He  was  extremely 
fond  of  children,  and  took  a  great  fancy  to  Martin, 
whom  he  carried  about  with  him  on  his  trips, 
took  to  every  country  circus  within  a  radius  of 
twenty  miles  (little  Ursula  walking  or  driving 

220 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

gravely  between  them,  with  a  hand  given  to  each) 
and  instructed  in  the  mysteries  of  fishing,  egg  col 
lecting,  and  camping,  till  the  boy  became  his  de 
voted  admirer  and  slave,  quoting  him  at  every 
turn,  and  falling  so  completely  under  his  in 
fluence  that  Susy  must  inevitably  have  grown 
jealous  had  she  not  been  so  wrapped  up  in  her 
new  farming  interests,  and  become  accustomed, 
moreover,  to  Martin's  absence  from  the  family 
circle  of  late,  through  his  new  school-life  and  his 
growing  independence.  Thomas,  always  less  dif 
ficult  to  manage  and  more  openly  affectionate, 
was  rapidly  taking  his  older  brother's  place,  and 
it  was  he  who  followed  her  about  now  from 
stable  to  garden,  from  garden  to  cellar,  while 
Martin  boiled  the  gypsy  kettle  and  hunted  sum 
mer  apples  with  the  roving  Carmichaels  along 
every  lane  in  the  country,  and  Mrs.  Carmichael 
plunged  into  village  politics  and  lobbied  tirelessly 
in  the  interests  of  rural  free  -  delivery,  district 
nursing,  road  repairs,  and  school-boards. 

It  was  a  great  disappointment  to  poor  Susy 
that  none  of  these  new  neighbors  had  turned  out 
in  the  least  as  she  had  planned.  From  one  of  the 
earliest  land -owners  in  that  part  of  the  country 
she  had  expected  unlimited  assistance,  advice,  and 
co-operation  in  the  details  of  what  Tom  called  her 
"return  to  the  soil";  and  lo!  the  people  most 

223 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

fitted  to  guide  her  deliberately  evaded  their  op 
portunities,  and  presented  the  spectacle  of  such 
complete  detachment  from  their  surroundings  as 
to  amaze  even  the  least  enthusiastic  suburbanite. 

When  Susy  drove  over  to  ask  advice  as  to  a 
milk-room  from  the  daughter-in-law  of  the  owner 
of  the  famous  Carmichael  Jerseys,  whose  exhibi 
tions  in  butter,  milk,  and  cheese  had  stripped 
county  fairs  of  all  their  blue  ribbons,  she  found 
her  telephoning  to  one  of  the  large  New  York 
dairy  companies  for  extra  cream,  and  all  her 
guest's  horrified  expostulations  and  reminiscences 
of  the  neat,  whitewashed  cellar  -  compartment 
under  their  feet  brought  forth  only  a  tolerant 
smile  from  the  bright,  wren-like  eyes. 

"My  dear  girl,"  she  replied  good-naturedly, 
hanging  up  the  receiver  and  beginning  a  postal 
card  to  her  poultry- man  in  Washington  Market, 
"I've  been  all  through  this,  you  know.  There's 
no  harm  in  it,  if  you  can  afford  it,  but  we're  saving 
for  Ursula's  college  education,  you  see,  and  ever 
since  I  gave  up  farming  my  hair  has  kept  brown- 
there,  over  my  ear,  it  grew  white,  when  I  took  an 
interest  in  the  milk." 

"Now  you're  silly,  Edith." 

"Silly,  my  dear?  That  shows  how  little  you 
know.  I'm  quite  in  earnest.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
those  awful  pails  and  pails  and  pails  of  milk  when 

224 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

nobody  wanted  any,  and  then  how  we  had  to 
beg  a  pint  from  these  horrid  country  milkmen 
when  poor  baby  was  literally  starving?  And 
when  one  saw  their  barnyards — ugh'  All  the 
cows  dry  at  once,  or  else  all  too  young  to  milk, 
and  not  a  servant  who'd  take  care  of  it — or  knew 
how,  anyway— 

"But  you  must  have  had  the  old  mother  cows," 
Susy  argued. 

"Yes,  indeed,  we  had  them,"  Mrs.  Carmichael 
agreed  promptly,  "but  what  good  was  that? 
Every  heifer  we  had  married  above  her  station, 
as  you  may  say — quite  advantageously,  you  know 
— and  so  her  babies  were  high-grade  stock,  and 
she  had  to  be  sold  and  we  had  the  babies  to  raise. 
What  did  that  mean  ?  Calf-meal  and  hominy  and 
skim-milk,  my  dear.  And  every  heifer  more  and 
more  particular,  till  Matthew  wouldn't  look  at 
anything  less  than  a  prize-winner  to  marry  her 
to!  And  of  course  that  was  all  right,  from  one 
point  of  view.  But  it  took  one  man,  for  the  cows 
alone.  Father  Carmichael  sunk  a  small  fortune 
in  his  dairy.  Take  my  advice,  my  dear — if  you 
go  beyond  one  cow,  you're  lost." 

Susy  sighed  uneasily. 

"It's  perfectly  true  that  we  haven't  had  any 
cream  this  summer,  it's  been  so  dry,"  she  admitted. 

"And  won't  have,  till  you  order  a  pint  a  day 
is  225 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

from  the  Highfield  Dairy  Farm,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
michael  cheerfully.  "We  have  it  a  lot  in  sum 
mer;  it  costs  less  than  feeding  the  cows  through 
the  winter—  Oh,  Mat,  Mat!  Stop  the  vegetable 
man,  won't  you?  He's  going  out,  and  I  didn't 
tell  Hulda  about  the  tomatoes!" 

Mr.  Carmichael,  with  Martin  hanging  by  one 
hand,  Ursula  swinging  on  the  other,  and  a  beau 
tiful  little  inlaid  table  strapped  to  his  shoulders, 
sent  a  cheerful  hail  in  the  direction  of  the  lanky 
figure  in  a  soiled  linen-duster,  bowed  over  on  the 
high  seat  in  front  of  his  baskets. 

"Be  aisy  with  'em  now,  Eph,  and  if  you  can't 
be  aisy,  wrhy  be  as  aisy  as  you  can,"  he  admon 
ished  the  peddler  good-humoredly,  as  the  man, 
with  a  sly  glance  at  Susy,  began  to  explain  how 
little  he  made  on  such  trifling  sales  as  his,  and 
how  his  business  had  barely  paid  him  this  year. 

"It's  too  bad  about  you,  Eph — it  really  is.  I've 
felt  so  for  years  (you  know  this  table's  pure  Sher 
aton,  Deedy ;  I  got  it  for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter) . 
The  only  thing  I  can't  understand  is  why  you've 
kept  in  the  business  so  long.  Just  living  for 
others,  I  suppose.  They  say  there's  a  lot  in  it, 
once  you  get  started,  and  by  George,  Eph,  you 
make  me  believe  it!  I  remember  you  telling  my 
mother  once  why  you  couldn't  sell  currants  any 
cheaper  by  the  crate  than  the  basket,  the  year 

226 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

our  bushes  didn't  bear.  The  good  woman  died 
convinced  that  she'd  sent  you  to  the  poorhouse!" 

Eph  grinned  consciously. 

"I  was  awful  fond  o'  your  mother,  Mr.  Car- 
michael,  an'  that's  a  sure  thing,"  he  said,  piling 
peaches  busily  from  one  basket  into  another. 
"Sorry,  Mis'  Carmichael,  but  peaches  is  riz  since 
last  week.  Up-state  crop  all  gone,  y'  know. 
Six  cents  a  basket  is  every  bit  I  get — there  ain't 
nothing  into  it,  really,  f'r  me." 

Mr.  Carmichael  sighed  sympathetically. 

"There  it  is  again!"  he  said.  "You  ought  to 
have  a  monument  put  up  for  you,  Eph,  you  cer 
tainly  ought.  And  the  same  with  all  you  people 
around  here.  You're  too  generous — too  forgetful 
of  your  own  interests!  If  I  didn't  know  about 
your  daughter  at  the  Normal  School,  and  your 
son's  motor-cycle,  and  that  last  mortgage  you 
bought  up,  I'd  feel  you  ought  to  get  at  least 
seven  cents  on  our  peaches! — Look  out  for  the 
specked  ones,  Deedy!" 

Eph  chuckled  admiringly. 

"There  ain't  much  gets  by  you,  I  bet,  Mr.  Car 
michael,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  y'  ain't  back  two 
months  yet,  and  up  with  all  the  gossip.  But 
that's  yer  mother,  all  over  again.  I'll  never  for 
get  the  good  turn  she  done  me,  though,  that  year 
the  crows  ate  my  corn  twice  runnin' — d'you 

227 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 


'member  that  ?  Reg'lar  pest  of  'em,  there  was 
that  year.  If  I  got  five  bushel,  I  done  well,  an' 
two  plantin's  at  that.  The  children  was  little 
then,  an'  couldn't  be  left,  an'  your  mother  she 
says  t'  m'  wife:  'You  send  'em  right  over  to  me, 
Ali da,  an'  I'll  look  after  'em  in  the  wash-house 
while  I'm  preservin',  an'  you  c'n  go  help  Eph  scare 

off  those  crows. 
You'll  never  get 
any  corn  any  oth 
er  wray.' 

' '  A  sight  of 
preservin'  your 
mother  did,  Mr. 
Carmichael." 

' '  I  think  she 
canned  every 
thing  but  grass," 
said  Mrs.  Car 
michael  with  a 
sigh. 

"I  guess  that's  so,"  the  vegetable  man  assented. 
'  'Member  that  year  the  moles  got  under  your 
melon  hills,  Mr.  Carmichael,  and  et  ev'ry  last 
one  ?  Poor  ol'  Mis'  Carmichael — I  c'n  see  her 
now,  leanin'  over  her  porch  railin'  an'  tellin'  me 
about  it. 

' '  I  feel  to  give  up  ground  fruit  altogether,  Eph,' 
228 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

she  says  t'  me,  'it's  terribly  discouragin' !  Over 
an'  above  the  fondness  of  Mr.  Carmichael  for 
melons,  I  had  so  counted  on  the  rinds  for  pre 
serves!'  But  moles  was  something  fierce  that 
year,  an'  that's  a  fact." 

Susy  frowned  uneasily. 

"There  seem  to  have  been  a  great  many  bad 
years  for  different  things  in  this  part  of  the 
country,"  she  observed,  with  a  questioning  glance 
at  the  vegetable  man. 

He  smiled  amusedly  at  the  others. 

"Why,  bless  your  heart,  ma'am,"  he  returned 
tolerantly,  "'tain't  this  part  o'  th'  country,  per- 
ticklerly.  Crops  is  the  dickens,  anywhere.  That's 
why  I  give  'em  up  and  bought  di-rect  from  Noo 
York — I'd  a  darn  sight  ruther  depend  on  Fulton 
Market  than  Providence,  as  I  tell  my  wife.  It's 
more  regular,  's  you  might  say." 

Mr.  Carmichael  chuckled  appreciatively,  and 
remarked  tentatively,  as  Eph  marked  down  his 
day's  sales  in  a  dingy  blank-book  and  adjusted 
the  old  sail-cloth  over  his  fruit : 

"Mrs.  Wilbour's  thinking  of  going  into  farm 
ing  a  little,  Eph — that's  why  she's  interested." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  vegetable  man, 
heartily,  "well,  that's  good,  now.  There's  fine 
land  about  here,  ma'am,  and  that  piece  you've 
bought,  down  by  the  post-road,  old  Deacon  Car- 

229 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

michael  prized  very  high,  I  c'n  tell  you.  1  only 
wish  somebody  'd  give  me  as  many  bar'ls  o' 
potatoes  as  the  old  gentleman  put  bar'ls  o' 
fertilizer  onto  that  southwest  field  o'  yours !  Well, 
I  must  be  gettin'  on,"  and  his  old  horse  adjusted 
herself  to  her  particular  loping  gait. 

Susy  scowled  and  stared  coldly  at  the  pure 
Sheraton  table,  dangled  temptingly  before  her 
by  its  proud  owner. 

"I  think  people  in  the  country  are  simply  dis 
gusting,"  she  declared.  "They're  perfect  hypo 
crites — that's  all  they  are!  First  they  tell  you 
all  the  horrid  things  they  can  think  of,  and  then 
in  the  next  breath  advise  you  to  go  ahead !  Myron 
Plummer  is  just  like  that,  exactly." 

"Well,  that  is  a  fine  piece  of  land  Wilbour 
bought,"  Mr.  Carmichael  urged,  "and  as  Eph 
says,  grandfather  did  a  lot  for  it.  It's  fine 
pasture." 

"Yes,  and  why  did  you  sell  your  share  in  it, 
then?"  Susy  demanded  quickly.  "You  won't 
even  keep  one  horse — and  with  all  your  land, 
too." 

"Not  while  I  can  sell  as  well  as  I  did  that 
piece,  and  rent  the  rest,"  he  returned  comfort 
ably,  "not  while  the  liveryman  will  keep  a  horse 
and  buggy  for  me  for  twenty-five  dollars  a  month, 
and  send  it  up  half  a  dozen  times  a  day  if  I  want 

230 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

it.  /  don't  want  to  lie  awake  nights  thinking  up 
things  to  keep  Myron  Plummer  busy — no,  thanks." 

"Susy  wants  ehickens,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  ob 
served,  producing  a  pocket-camera  and  dexter 
ously  taking  a  snapshot  of  Martin  and  Ursula, 
who  leaned  effectively  against  the  vine -covered 
stone  posts  of  the  entrance-gate. 

Her  husband  turned  a  pitying  glance  on  Susy. 

"Does  she,  really?"  he  asked.  "Well,  well, 
well!  I  do  beg  and  pray  that  you  won't  discuss 
it  with  her,  Deedy.  Chickens  are  like  measles: 
they've  got  to  be  had,  and  you  might  as  well  get 
it  over.  What  good  did  reasoning  do  you  ? 
What  good  did  it  do  when  I  showed  you  mother's 
chicken-book  and  the  amount  she  sunk  in  'em? 
Father  always  said  he  could  have  bought  the  land 
the  court-house  stands  on  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
mother's  chickens!" 

"Oh  yes,"  Susy  burst  out,  "but  your  mother 
bought  fancy  stock  and  bred  prize-winners — that's 
different.  Now,  if  you  take  just  two  or  three 
dozen  ordinary  fowls — •" 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Mr.  Carmichael  kindly, 
"don't  waste  your  breath — don't!  You  see,  I've 
been  all  through  this.  If  my  mother  hadn't  made 
a  success  of  two  or  three  dozen  ordinary  fowls, 
you  would  have  promptly  replied  that  it  was  be 
cause  she  didn't  go  into  it  scientifically  and  im- 

231 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

prove  the  breed!  Oh,  I  know  you!  There's  only 
one  way  to  get  the  chicken  fever  out  of  your 
system,  and  that's  to  have  'em.  There's  an  in 
cubator  out  in  the  old  wash-house — I'll  sell  it  to 
you  cheap." 

"I  don't  want  it,"  she  answered  scornfully, 
"incubators  are  foolish.  Wherever  we  visit  that 
they  have  them  it's  all  they  talk  about,  and  the 
waitress  or  the  coachman  or  the  poor  host  him 
self  has  to  jump  up  and  lower  the  heat  or  open 
some  slide  every  other  minute.  No;  two  or  three 
dozen  ordinary— 

"That's  all  right,"  he  interrupted  firmly,  I 
know  all  about  that.  But  I'll  bet  you  here  and 
now  whatever  you  pay  me  for  the  incubator  that 
you  buy  it,  just  the  same." 

"I  heard  her  asking  Myron  Plummer  about 
turkeys  yesterday,"  pursued  Mrs.  Carmichael 
maliciously. 

"Turkeys!" 

Mr.  Carmichael's  eyes  bulged  in  amazement. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake!  Well,  you  are  going  it! 
Does  Wilbour  expect  to  get  the  Sugar  Trust  into 
his  corporation  work,  may  I  ask?  He'll  need  it." 

"But  nobody  raises  them  now  around  here," 
poor  Susy  began  defensively,  "and  they  ought 
to  pay,  the  Suburban  Home  says." 

"Of  course  nobody  raises  'em,"  he  said,  im- 
232 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

patiently,  "and  why  not?  Think  a  bit,  Mrs. 
Wilbour.  If  it  paid,  wouldn't  they?  Do  you 
know  that,  next  to  the  horse  and  the  cow  and  the 
hen  and  the  pig,  the  turkey  is  the  most  skittish 
of  God's  creatures  ?  Do  you  know  that  they  hate 
you  and  despise  you  and  get  laryngitis  purposely, 
and  croup,  and  have  to  wear  rubbers  in  the  spring 
and  mufflers  in  winter  ?  Do  you  know  that  they 
can  fly  miles — and  demonstrate  their  abilities 
early  and  often  ?  Do  you  know — 

"Oh,  well,  I  never  meant  to  get  them  this  year, 
anyhow,"  said  Susy  hurriedly.  "And  all  those 
things  aren't  true  of  ducks,  you  can't  say  that! 
Anybody  can  keep  ducks,  Myron  says." 

Mr.  Carmichael  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

"Oh,  all  right,  ail  right!"  he  cried  despairingly, 
"go  on  your  own  way!  Just  ask  Myron,  from  me, 
wrhose  ducks  he  means,  that's  all!  Of  course, 
somebody  must  keep  all  the  ducks  that  run  away, 
so  perhaps  Myron  means  that  he  has  his  eye  on 
some  special  brood!  I  never  could  keep  them, 
but  that's  because  they  always  liked  somebody 
else's  pond  better.  Around  here  they  don't  say 
'keep'  ducks — they  say  'raise'  ducks,  you'll 
notice.  That  means  they  raise  the  price  for 
neighbors'  boys  to  hunt  them  up." 

"Nonsense!"  Susy  declared  bravely,  "they're 
cheap." 

233 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 


"Of  course  they're  cheap,"  he  returned  de 
risively.  "They're  cheap  in  the  first  place,  be 
cause,  if  you  have  any  sense,  you  don't  buy  them 
—you  wait  till  somebody  else's  come  on  your 
property.  They're  cheap  after  that,  because 
they're  not  there.  Those  are  the  only  cheap 
ducks,  Mrs.  Wilbour — somebody  else's!" 

Susy  put  out  her  lower  lip. 

"Come,  Martin,  we  must  go,"  she  said  decided 
ly.  "Say  good-bye  to  Ursula  and  come  directly. 
I  sha'n't  believe  in  anything  if  I  stay  here  any 
longer." 

"Oh  yes,  you  will,"  the  cynic  shot  at  her  as 
she  left  the  gate,  "yes,  you  will,  dear  lady — you'll 
believe   in  the    Adams'   Ex 
press  Company :  it's  the  best 
thing  about  the  country!" 


VIII 

WHICH    DEALS   WITH    A    LITTLE    SCIENCE    AND    A 
GREAT  DEAL  OF    HEALTH 

HEI\T  you're  not  going,  Tom?" 
Susy  looked  doubtfully  at  her  hus 
band. 

"Not  going?  I  tell  you,  I  can't 
go,  Susy.  It's  not  that  I'm  not 
perfectly  willing  to,  but  I  must  be  in  court  at 
eleven.  So  how  can  I?" 

"Well,  but,  Tom,  the  funeral  isn't  till  half-past 
two,  and  you  said  yourself  you  expected  to  be 
through  at  one." 

Mr.  Wilbour  shouldered  into  his  rubber  coat 
discontentedly. 

"It's  pouring,"  he  said  shortly. 
235 


THE    BIOGRAPHY   OF   A    BOY 

"I  know.  But  just  think,  dear;  suppose  he 
should  have  left  something  to  Martin — Aunt  Em 
ma  insists  that  he  has  —  just  think  how  it  will 
look!" 

"But  I'm  not  named  after  him,"  Tom  argued 
sulkily. 

"Oh,  Tom,  you're  as  bad  as  Martin,  every  bit! 
You  talk  just  like  him,  sometimes." 

"My  dear  girl,  if  you  knew  how  I  hated  funer 
als!  And  Aunt  Em  is  perfectly  morbid  about 
it — she'll  insist  on  going  to  the  grave  if  she  goes 
in  a  canoe!" 

' '  Well,  what  if  she  does  ?  It's  not  as  if  you  went 
to  one  every  week — I  must  say,  Tom,  I  think 
you're  awfully  childish  about  it.  And  Martin 
named  after  him— 

"It  wasn't  particularly  after  him,  Susy.  I've 
told  you  before.  It's  an  old  family  name,  and 
there  were  too  many  Thomases,  and  I've  always 
been  rather  proud  of  that  first  old  boy — Martin 
the  first.  Uncle  Mart  just  happened  to  be  the 
one  in  that  generation.  I  didn't  like  to  see  it 
die  out,  that's  all.  I  never  saw  Uncle  Mart  half 
a  dozen  times  in  my  life.  And  a  rain  like 
this—" 

"Oh,  the  rain!" 

"That's  all  very  well,  Susan  Wilbour  "  — Tom 
struck  an  attitude  and  brandished  an  umbrella 

236 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

menacingly—  •' '  but  you  listen  to  me  and  mark  my 
words :  I  —  am  —  not  —  going  to  carry  a  frock- 
coat  in  and  change  in  the  office,  you  know. 
Neither  will  I  put  on  that  idiotic  black  tie  some 
body  left  out  on  my  chifTonnier.  If  I  do  go,  I'll 
go  as  I  am.  And  there's  only  one  possible  train 
to  Englewood  I  can  get.  And  as  far  as  going  to 
the  grave  goes,  I  can  tell  you  here  and  now  that 
while  I  am  willing  to  risk  anything  up  to  and 
including  bronchitis  for  the  heathen  rites  known 
as  a  family  funeral,  I  draw  the  line  at  double 
—  or  single  —  pneumonia.  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

"Oh  yes,  you  make  yourself  clear  enough. 
He's  not  my  uncle,  anyway.  It's  no  affair  of 
mine.  But,  as  I  say,  if  he  should  have  remem 
bered  Martin— 

"If  I'm  named  after  him,  why  can't  I  go  to  the 
funeral  ?" 

A  third  voice  entered  the  conversation,  for 
whose  somewhat  strained  tone  the  sleety  October 
rain  must  be  regarded  as  largely  responsible,  and 
the  eldest  of  the  Wilbour  children  sauntered  into 
the  hall. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Tom  shortly.  "Why  aren't 
you  at  school  ?  Or  are  you  waiting  to  drive  in 
with  me  ?  You'd  better  stir  a  little  lively,  my 
lad — I've  lost  one  train  already." 

237 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  school,"  said  Martin 
placidly.  "I'm  talking  about  the  funeral.  Can't 
I  go,  mother?  Where  is  he  going  to  leave  me — 
Uncle  Mart,  I  mean.  Bell  said  he'd  leave  me 
somewhere,  she  thought." 

"Now  you  see,  Susy,  the  result  of  this  indis 
criminate  chatter  about  a  thing  that's  in  bad 
taste  enough,  anyhow, "Tom  began  majestically. 
"I  don't  approve  of  this  sort  of  thing  at  all.  No 
one  is  going  to  leave  you  anywhere,  Binks,  unless 
I  leave  you  behind  this  minute.  Get  your  books 
and  hurry." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  school,  father.  There 
isn't  any  school." 

Tom  stopped  in  the  middle  of  turning  up  his 
trousers,  but  Susy  anticipated  his  remarks. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Tom,  there  isn't,"  she 
interposed  hastily.  "There  were  eight  cases  of 
mumps  yesterday  morning,  and  I've  heard  of  two 
more  since.  They've  closed  —  it  was  the  only 
sensible  thing  to  do.  I'll  explain  it  later.  Do 
hurry,  or  you'll  miss  this  one!" 

Tom  kissed  her  hastily,  and  dived  through  the 
chilly  sleet  to  the  shelter  of  Myron  Plummer's 
covered  station  wagon,  where  all  previous  argu 
ments  melted  into  the  brief  he  devoured  all  the 
way  to  his  office. 

His  case  was  successful,  and  the  rain  had  sub- 
238 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

sided  before  he  met  Myron  again,  but  even  these 
ameliorations  were  not  quite  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  quiet  satisfaction  of  his  manner  at  dinner, 
where,  relieved  of  his  damp  clothes,  comforted 
with  roast  chicken,  his  favorite  salad,  and  a  fluffy 
apple-dumpling,  and  insensibly  soothed  and  sur 
rounded  by  the  sweetness  of  Susy's  demeanor 
(she  had  assumed  a  new  tea-gown,  and  felt  that 
she  had  been  unreasonably  insistent  in  a  matter 
which  really  concerned  her  husband  and  his  sense 
of  duty  far  more  than  herself)  he  settled  himself 
to  his  black  coffee  and  a  twisted  light  -  brown 
cigar  from  a  very  special  box,  and  leaned  back, 
smiling  at  his  wife. 

"Well,  Tootsie,  what  do  you  think  has  hap 
pened,  after  all?"  he  asked. 

' '  Why,  I  don't  know,  dear — what  do  you  mean  ? 
(I  think  I'll  do  the  next  dozen  plain,  with  just 
one  big  initial  in  the  centre,  wouldn't  you  ?)  Are 
you  going  to  get  that  railroad  case?" 

"Possibly — there's  a  chance.  But  that's  not 
it.  Aunt  Em  was  right  about  the  old  gentleman, 
Toots." 

"The  old  gentleman?"  Susy  had  completely 
forgotten  the  morning's  conversation  by  now,  and 
held  her  embroidery  at  arm's-length  to  catch  the 
effect,  serene  in  the  knowledge  that  the  window- 
screens  were  at  last  down,  dusted,  and  put  away, 
16  241 


nib    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

the  wood-cellar  neatly  filled,  the  driveways  trim 
med  and  raked,  and  the  place  generally  in  order 
for  the  winter. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Mart.  He  left  Binks  quite  a  little 
sum." 

"Oh,  Tom!     How  good  —  how  much?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Why,  dearest,  how  can  I  tell?  As  much  as 
a — a  thousand  ?  Not  that  he  needed  to,  of  course, 
but  Aunt  Em  says  he  could  well  afford  it." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  yes,  he  could  afford  a  lot  if  he'd 
wanted — he  cut  up  very  well.  But  he  split  it  up 
among  a  lot  of  fool  missionary  societies  and  a 
college  in  India." 

"Then  it  wasn't  a  thousand?" 

"No — o — it  was  more." 

"Oh,  Tom!" 

"It  was  quite  a  lot  more." 

"Tom!" 

"It  was  ten." 

"Ten  thousand  ?  Tommy,  really  ?  Oh,  dearest, 
what  a  pity  you  didn't  go,  after  all!  Though 
of  course  you  couldn't  have  possibly  known — I 
don't  mean  that  ..." 

Tom  gazed  at  her  with  the  never-failing  amuse 
ment  that  ten  years'  contemplation  of  her  mental 
processes  still  afforded  him.  He  shook  his  head 
silently  for  a  few  seconds,  then  spoke. 

242 


TOM    KISSED    HER    HASTILY    AXU     DIVED    THROUGH    THE     SLEET 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

"But  I  did  go,"  he  remarked  easily.  "How 
did  you  think  I  knew  all  about  it?  I  did  go." 

' '  Oh,  did  you  ?  How  good  of  you — Tom,  I  am 
pleased!  It  didn't  really  matter  about  the  grave, 
of  course — 

"But  I  went  there,  too." 

She  patted  his  knee  enthusiastically. 

"And  I  was  so  cross!"  she  murmured  con 
tritely.  "I  do  hope  you  haven't  caught  cold! 
And  as  busy  as  you  are,  they  couldn't  have  ex 
pected  you  to  dress — 

"But  I  did,"  he  assured  her  patiently.  "I  did 
dress.  Aunt  Em  came  to  the  office  to  go  with 
me,  and  I  was  explaining  that  I  hadn't  any  place 
to  change,  and  that  new  clerk  we've  got — he's 
just  about  my  size  and  awfully  anxious  to  make 
good  with  the  firm  —  said  he  could  fit  me  out  in 
a  minute,  he  had  the  frock  he'd  worn  to  a  wed 
ding  in  a  suit -case,  and  I  changed  in  his  room, 
and  he  went  out  and  got  me  a  tie  and  gloves. 
Aunt  Em  was  pleased,  and  my  silk  hat  was  there, 
anyway." 

"Tommy  Wilbour,  how  lovely!"  Susy  sat 
upon  his  knee  and  kissed  him  warmly,  while  he 
stared  at  the  ridiculous  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  begged, 
finally,  addressing  the  fire,  apparently,  and  en 
deavoring  to  take  her  ruffling  of  his  side  hair  in 

245 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

the  spirit  in  which  it  was  meant.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  I  believe,  Susan  Wilbour,  you  are 
more  pleased  that  I  packed  myself  into  Hill's 
vest  than  that  Binks  has  ten  thousand  of  his  own ! 
It  must  be  darn  queer  to  be  a  woman!" 

"Not  at  all,  Tom — you  don't  understand.  I'm 
delighted  about  the  money,  of  course.  Think  of 
it — ten  thousand!  How  pleased  Aunt  Emma 
must  be!  But  it  would  have  been  so  unfeeling 
if,  after  all,  that— 

"I  had  worn  a  dark-green  tie?  I  suppose  so. 
The  other  legatees  would  have  broken  the  will  by 
now,  undoubtedly.  But  it  was  decent  of  the  old 
gentleman,  wasn't  it,  now?  He  said  he  appre 
ciated  the  way  we'd  felt  about  the  name,  and, 
from  all  he'd  heard,  Binks  was  safe  to  be  a  chip 
of  the  old  block.  Aunt  Em  wrote  him  all  about 
that  turning-the-other-cheek  business,  it  seems, 
and  he  wrote  back  to  her  that  it  did  all  three  of 
us  credit — you  and  me  and  Binks,  he  meant — and 
that  he'd  had  a  good  laugh  over  it." 

"What  shall  we  do  with  it,  Tom?  Put  it  in 
the  bank  or  invest— 

"My  bank  is  busted,"  a  quiet  voice  inter 
polated,  "and,  anyway,  I'd  rather  buy  a  ranch 
in  Australia.  I  know  of  a  good  one.  Did  you 
bring  the  money  home?  Shall  I  be  called  Uncle 
Mart  now?" 

246 


"  AUNT     EM    WAS    PLEASED 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

They  started  nervously,  for  they  had  supposed 
themselves  alone  in  the  room;  and  yet  it  would 
have  been  manifestly  unfair  to  accuse  a  person 
of  sly  eavesdropping  who  lay  placidly  at  full 
length  on  a  rug  not  two  feet  away  from  them, 
his  head  supported  by  his  elbows,  a  large  book 
under  his  nose. 

"The  way  you  keep  quiet  lately,  Martin,  is 
simply  nerve-racking!"  his  mother  exclaimed  un 
easily.  "You  just  appear  in  places,  like  Indians 
and  ghosts  and  burglars!  I  can't  see  why  it  is 
that  boys  either  walk  like  a — an  avalanche,  or 
else  glide  about  the  wray  you  do  nowadays!" 

Martin  looked  gratified. 

"If  I  was  an  Indian,  you'd  be  dead  before  you 
knew  it,  wouldn't  you?"  he  asked  cheerfully.  "I 
practise  it  nights,  barefooted.  I  think  I  ought 
to  have  gone  to  that  funeral,  though.  Bell  said 
a  black  tie  wouldn't  have  been  much  of  an  ex 
pense,  and  'twould  have  shown  respect." 

Tom  stiffened  angrily  in  his  chair. 

"Really,  Susy,"  he  began,  "I  must  say  that 
Bell  occasionally  forgets— 

"But,  Tom,  dear,  just  think  how  long  she's 
been  here!  She  feels  like  one  of  the  family,  you 
know.  And  she'll  be  so  glad  about  Martin's 
money." 

Tom  sighed  resignedly. 
249 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"Then  I  know  what  she'll  do,"  he  declared: 
"she'll  burst  into  tears  and  say  she  had  him  from 
the  bottle!" 

"She  does  that  every  once  in  a  while  now," 
Martin  added  thoughtfully.  "Bell  acts  awful 
funny  nowadays.  But  I  think  I  might  have 
gone  to  that  funeral." 

"There,  there,  Binks,  don't  talk  any  more 
about  it." 

Tom's  tone  was  good-natured  but  decided,  and 
Martin  returned  contentedly  enough  to  his  book; 
the  incident  was  apparently  closed. 

But  the  mischievous  little  imp  that  haunts  the 
mother  of  small  children  (his  name  is  "Why-let- 
well-enough-alone?")  prompted  Susy  to  her  un 
doing,  and  with  the  kindest  intention  in  the 
world  she  leaned  over  and  patted  her  son's 
shoulder. 

"Little  boys  don't  go  to  funerals,  dear,"  she 
said.  "They're  not  very  pleasant.  Father  had 
to  go,  but  he  didn't  really  want  to — he  didn't 
enjoy  it." 

"Father  don't  like  chocolate-cake,"  Binks  re 
turned,  a  slight  shade  of  resentment  in  his  tone; 
"but  I  do,  as  it  happens." 

Now  such  an  apparently  irrelevant  remark  from 
Thomas  would  have  produced  no  result,  conver 
sationally  ;  his  communications  were  of tener  than 

250 


"SHE'LL  SAY  SHE   HAD   HIM  FROM  THE   BOTTLE 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

not  of  this  slightly  jerky  character,  and  only  the 
funniest  of  them  provoked  discussion  in  a  family 
circle  sated  with  his  peculiar  form  of  repartee. 
But  Martin  was,  if  anything,  painfully  adult  of 
late  in  his  grasp  of  social  situations,  and  such  an 
inconsecutive  answer  had  all  the  effect,  from  him, 
that  it  wrould  have  had  from  any  one  two  feet 
taller. 

"Chocolate-cake!"  Susy  echoed  vaguely. 

"And  the  phonograph,  too,"  Martin  went  on, 
a  distinct  grievance  now  audible  in  his  voice.  "I 
know  he  don't  like  that,  either,  but  I  do — I  love 
'em;  and  that's  why  I  think  I  might  have  gone 
and  him  stayed  home.  Marches  especially.  You 
hear  the  drum  and  everything." 

Tom  scowled  with  pardonable  confusion. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Binks,  any 
way?"  he  demanded.  "You're  talking  non 
sense.  Nobody  said  anything  about  chocolate- 
cakes  or  phonographs,  though  it's  quite  true  I 
detest  them  both.  But  they  have  nothing  to  do 
with  funerals." 

Martin  cocked  his  head  knowingly.  "Oh, 
haven't  they?"  he  said  with  a  sly  satisfaction, 
adding  impudently,  "but  they  have,  as  it  hap 
pens." 

"I  must  say,  Susy,  that  of  all  the  things  that 
boy  has  picked  up  lately,  'as  it  happens'  is  the 

253 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OF  A    BOY 

most  tiresome,"  Tom  complained  irritably.  "It 
seems  to  me  he  says  nothing  else. — You  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about,  Martin — you've 
got  funerals  mixed  up  with  some  other  form  of 
social  dissipation,  I  assure  you.  It's  quite  true 
that  odd  things  are  seen  there,  occasionally,  but 
the  two  you  mention  are  among  the  last  I  should 
look  for. — I  think  I'll  put  the  money  in  Hart- 
well's  Trust  Company,  dear.  The  old  fellow  will 
be  pleased  as  Punch  to  begin  with,  you  know, 
and  then,  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing,  anyhow." 

"The  funeral  I  went  to  there  was  chocolate- 
cake  and  the  biggest  horn  -  thing  I  ever  saw  on 
a  phonograph  —  how  do  they  get  that  talk  into 
the  phonograph,  father?" 

"Why,  Martin,  you  never  went  to  a  funeral. 
You  mustn't  be  so  obstinate,  dear,  it  annoys 
father.  You  mean  the  strawberry  festival — fes 
tival,  not  funeral,"  Susy  admonished. 

Martin  closed  his  book  definitely  and  sat  up 
cross-legged  on  the  rug,  his  jaw  set  firmly,  the 
light  of  battle  in  his  eye. 

"If  you  say  that  again,  you'll  be  contradicting," 
he  began  forcefully.  "When  I  say  funeral,  I 
mean  funeral.  A  strawberry  festival  is  ten  cents 
a  plate  for  children  and  only  one  piece  of  cake. 
A  funeral,  you  get  all  you  want.  At  the  festival 
you  had  to  pay  five  cents,  and  the  phonograph 

254 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

was  all  talking — a  darkey  and  an  Irishman  and 
a  dog  having  a  fight.  At  the  funeral,  it  was  just 
music.  And  a  woman  that  sang,  too." 

"Whose  funeral  was  it,  Binks?"  Tom  asked 
quietly. 

"Whose?  Whose?"  Martin  repeated  in  a  puz 
zled  tone.  "What  do  you  mean?  Who  owned 
it  ?  God,  I  suppose.  You  can't  own  a  funeral, 
can  you?" 

"Father  means,  who  had  died?"  Susy  explained 
tremulously,  but  he  still  looked  puzzled. 

"I  didn't  see  any  one  dying,"  he  said  thought 
fully,  "everybody  was  alive  that  was  in  the 
library — and  the  dining-room,  too.  There  were 
some  stuffed  birds  on  the  top  shelf,  though." 

"There,  you  see,"  Susy  burst  out  in  relieved 
tones,  "it's  all  a  mistake— you  went  to  some 
party  or  reception,  dear.  Funerals  always  have 
—there  has  to  be — oh,  dear,  Tom,  how  horrid! 
But  I  suppose  he'll  have  to  see  a  coffin  some  day." 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  coffins,"  Martin  assured 
her  tolerantly,  "there  was  one  came  next  door 
to  the  school  last  week,  when  the  cook  died,  and 
the  man  let  me  bury  one  of  the  boys  in  it.  He 
buried  me,  next.  It  was  in  that  wagon  with  little 
doors  in  the  back.  The  cook  was  so  fat  they 
couldn't  carry  her  down  the  back  stairs.  It  was 
at  recess-time  they  came,  and  all  of  us  ran  'round 

255 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

to  the  back  porch  window — you  could  see  beau 
tifully!" 

"Oh,  Tom!"  his  mother  gasped. 

"But  this  was  a  funeral — it  was  different,"  he 
pursued  instructively.  "They  had  tea  at  one 
end  of  the  dining-room  table  and  chocolate  at  the 
other.  With  whipped  cream.  Ursula  and  I  had 
two  cups  each.  Don't  you  remember,  I  brought 
you  some  flowers  that  day?  They  were  from 
there.  They  had  lots  and  lots  of  flowers." 

"I  believe  he's  been  to  one  of  Edith's  Christian 
Science  funerals,  Tom!"  Susy  exclaimed  sudden 
ly.  "You  know  they  don't  have  any — any— 

"Any  corpse?"  Tom  suggested  ironically,  to 
be  quite  honestly  overwhelmed  by  her  simple 
affirmative. 

When  she  added,  deprecatingly,  "And  really, 
in  a  great  many  ways,  dear,  it  must  be  much 
pleasanter — for  everybody  .  .  ."  he  burst  into 
unrestrained  mirth. 

"Especially  for  the  one  that  didn't  die — I  be 
lieve  you!"  he  assured  her.  "I'd  a  lot  rather  not 
be  dead  at  my  funeral,  if  you  ask  me.  I'd  prefer 
even  chocolate-cake  and  a  phonograph.  But  do 
you  think,  seriously,  Toots,  that  this  sort  of  thing 
is  good  for  Binks?" 

' '  We — ell " — Susy  poked  her  contemplative  dim 
ple  with  its  customary  finger — "I  don't  just  know 

256 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

what  to  do,  dear.  He's  over  there  all  the  time  — 
he's  perfectly  devoted  to  Ursula,  you  know — and 
I  can't  quite  tell  him  to  believe  almost  everything 
he  hears  there,  but  not  that  sort  of  thing,  can  I  ? 
You  see,  Mr.  Carmichael  doesn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  it — it's  only  Edith  and  Ursula.  And 
they  are  certainly  very  well — they're  hardly  ever 
sick,  you  must  admit." 

"But  so  is  Carmichael,  isn't  he?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Then  why  must  I  admit  anything?" 

Susy  removed  the  customary  finger  and  as 
sumed  the  expression  of  one  about  to  clear  her 
mind. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "and  I 
must  say  that  when  it's  a  case  of  contagious 
disease  it's  pretty  hard  on  the  rest  of  us.  It  was 
Ursula's  mumps,  you  know,  that  closed  Martin's 
school." 

"No!" 

"Yes.  Didn't  I  tell  you  about  it?  Martin, 
kiss  father  good-night  now,  and  start  up-stairs." 

"I  know  more  about  Science  than  father  does, 
if  you're  going  to  talk  about  that,"  grumbled 
Martin,  "and  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  sit  up  till 
after  nine  o'clock  when  I'm  more  than  nine 
years  old !  Ursula  eats  her  whole  dinner  with  the 
family — not  just  vegetables,  and  if  the  pudding 

257 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

is  plain.  Her  mother  says  you  waste  a  lot  of 
time  worrying  about  mine  and  Thomas's  stum- 
micks:  if  you'd  just  declare  the  truth  and  have 
a  little  trust,  the  Divine  Love  would  take  care 
of  our  stummicks  all  right!" 

Susy  gasped. 

"Don't  say  stummicks,  Martin — stomachs," 
she  began  uncertainly. 

"Perhaps  that's  part  of  the  system,"  Tom  sug 
gested  coldly.  "I  notice  the  Divine  Love,  by-the- 
way,  didn't  do  much  for  Carmichael's  stomach 
that  night  the  fish  was  off  color — he  was  far  the 
worst  of  any  of  us." 

"Father  Carmichael  just  spreads  error  all  the 
time — you  can't  do  anything  with  him!"  Martin 
explained  eagerly.  "He  promised  Ursula  she 
could  treat  him  from  four  to  five  for  that  fish, 
and  he'd  just  be  quiet,  and  then  at  five  o'clock  he 
was  all  well  and  went  out  for  a  walk,  and  Mother 
Carmichael  was  so  glad,  and  all  the  while  the  up 
stairs  clock  had  stopped,  and  it  was  from  five  to 
six  they  were  really  treating  him.  So  Mother 
Carmichael  was  cross,  and  Ursula's  about  given 
him  up,  she  says." 

Tom  chuckled. 

"Good-night,  Binks,"  he  said  abruptly,  and  Mar 
tin,  with  many  backward  and  appealing  glances, 
dragged  himself  reluctantly  from  the  room. 

258 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"The  maddening  part  of  it  was,"  Susy  resumed 
easily,  "that  Ursula  really  had  the  lightest  case 
of  mumps  I  ever  heard  of.  She  gave  them  to  lots 
of  children  in  the  school,  and  so  they  really  had 
to  close.  They  had  them  hard,  too.  But  she 
was  really  hardly  uncomfortable.  I  thought  Edith 
was  quite  unreasonable  about  it,  for  she  knew  all 
the  while  she  had  them  when  she  sent  her." 

' '  Knew  ?"  Tom  queried  reprovingly.  ' '  I  thought 
there  was  no  such  thing  in  that  lingo — no  mumps, 
nor  anything  else." 

"Oh,  well,  there's  not,  in  one  way,"  Susy  an 
swered  vaguely,  "but  whatever  she  may  believe 
as  a  Christian  Scientist,  of  course  as  a — a  person, 
you  know  ...  I  mean,  everybody  knows  what 
mumps  are." 

"That  seems  to  be  the  difficulty,"  Tom  said 
dryly.  "It  might  have  been  very  unpleasant  if 
it  had  been  scarlet  fever,  for  instance.  They 
ought  to  live  in  a  town  together,  then  nobody  'd 
care  a — a  hurrah  what  they  'declared'  or  'spread' 
or  'claimed.'  But  it's  harder  on  the  benighted 
unbeliever,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  than  anything 
since  the  Inquisition." 

"You  do  put  things  so  strongly,  Tom!" 

"That's  all  right;  but  I  never  happened  to  have 
had  the  mumps,  Susan  Wilbour,  and  I  can  tell 
you  here  and  now  that  I'm  not  anxious  to  begin. 
17  259 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

And  it's  simply  ridiculous  to  hear  Binks  pattering 
off  all  that  nonsense.     I  want  it  stopped." 

"That's  all  very  well,  Tom,  but  what  are  we 
going  to  do  ?  You  talk  as  if  he  was  a  baby — or 
Thomas.  When  he  was  little  I  always  knew 
where  he  was  and  what  he  was  doing,  but  it's  dif 
ferent  now.  He's  at  school  all  day,  and  off  with 
Mr.  Carmichael  and  Ursula  Saturdays,  and  often 
Sundays,  for  that  matter;  and  that's  certainly 
better  than  being  with  those  rough  boys  that 
play  ball  up  the  road.  Of  course,  I  don't  approve 
of  all  of  Edith's  ideas,  but  the  trouble  is,  he  isn't 
old  enough  to  explain  all  that  to;  don't  you  see? 
Why,  Tom,  I  don't  know  what  Martin  is  thinking 
any  more!  He's  so  quiet,  and  he  just  closes  his 
lips  and  walks  off;  but  he  doesn't  even  trouble  to 
argue,  sometimes.  It's  just  like  anybody  else  ..." 

"I  see."  Tom  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  wife. 
"You  mean  he's  an  individual." 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  mean,"  she  said,  relieved. 
"He's  a — a  regular  person,  now.  And  he  likes 
different  people.  I  don't  care  for  Ursula  much, 
myself — of  course,  I  don't  pretend  to  know  any 
thing  about  girls — but  she  seems  so  self-con 
scious  and  managing  to  me.  But  Martin  adores 
her:  everything  she  does  is  right.  /  should  think 
she'd  be  very  hard  to  live  with." 

Tom  chuckled. 

260 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 


k 


"You  talk  like  a  prospective  mother-in-law," 
he  warned  her.  "Look  out!  You  may  be  living 
with  her  yet." 

"Never!"  Susy  cried  with  spirit.  "Please  don't 
talk  so,  Tom!  It's— it's  awful!" 

"Oh,  she's  a  good  enough  little  thing!  You 
exaggerate  her  bad  points.  Carmichael  will 
knock  all  that  nonsense  out  of  her."  And  Mar- 

261 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

tin's  financial  windfall  renewed  their  happy 
plans. 

But  the  next  Sunday,  when  they  lunched  with 
the  Carmichaels,  he  sympathized  more  fully  with 
Susy  than  he  had  expected  to.  On  entering  the 
hall,  which  to  Susy's  never-ending  discomfort  still 
presented  Niagara  by  Moonlight  and  the  offensive 
bamboo  easel  to  astonished  guests,  they  had  en 
countered  Ursula  weeping  silently  by  the  big 
yellow  cat,  who  lay,  extended  limply  on  a  hideous 
Brussels  rug,  in  a  doubtful  state  of  recovery  from 
what  had  evidently  proved  a  more  than  un 
usually  serious  indisposition. 

"I  suppose  you're  'declaring  the  truth'?" 
Susy  began  disgustedly. 

The  child  nodded  mutely  and  stared  fixedly  at 
her  pet,  whose  tawny  sides  heaved  distressfully. 

"Now,  Ursula,  I  tell  you  plainly  and  for  the 
last  time,"  Susy  went  on  firmly,  kneeling  by  the 
exhausted  animal  and  lifting  its  eyelid  with  a 
practised  hand,  "unless  Cassar  gets  something 
done  for  him,  he's  going  to  die,  and  you  won't 
have  any  cat  any  more.  You're  old  enough  to 
understand  that  perfectly,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  the  last  time  that  never  again  would  I 
work  over  him  with  butter  and  brandy  and  warm 
blankets,  only  to  have  you  say,  \vhen  I  brought 
him  'round,  that  he  had  begun  to  be  better  just 

262 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   Of  A    BOY 

as  I  came,  and  that  you  had  demonstrated  on 
him — it's  too  ridiculous!  I  felt  so  sorry  for  the 
poor  animal  that  I  didn't  care  how  sneaky  you 
were  about  it,  but  I'm  not  going  to  play  that 
game  any  more.  If  you  want  Cassar  cured  this 
time,  you've  got  to  ask  me  to  do  it,  and  admit 
afterward  that  I  did  do  it,  and  promise  you'll  try 
to  feed  him  properly  after  this  and  remember  his 
olive-oil  every  week.  Now,  will  you?" 

Ursula  looked  stubborn. 

"God  made  Cassar,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,"  Susy  returned  impatiently,  "and 
God  made  you,  too,  I  suppose ;  but  if  your  stom 
ach  was  all  full  of  little  balls  of  hair,  the  way  I 
told  you  Cassar 's  was,  you'd  find  that  nothing 
but  castor-oil  would  get  them  out." 

The  cat  stretched  feebly  and  turned  a  glazed 
eye  upon  his  little  mistress.  Ursula  snatched  him 
to  her  little  breast. 

"Oh,  Caesar,  Cassar,  why  can't  you  believe?" 
she  moaned.  "Love  is  all  around  you,  Caesar; 
why  can't  you  trust  it?" 

Tom  snorted  violently  and  Cassar  choked ;  Mar 
tin,  who  had  stolen  silently  into  the  group  from 
some  mysterious  hiding-place,  looked  sympa 
thetically  at  his  friend,  and,  squatting  beside  her, 
fixed  Cassar  with  the  eye  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 
He  appeared  to  be  muttering  spells,  and  Tom 

263 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

scowled  deeply  upon  his  first-born.  The  group 
was  altogether  tragic  and  formidable. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  can  cure  him  this 
time,"  Susy  remarked  imperturbably,  "he  seems 
very  low.  You'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind, 
Ursula.  And  your  father's  right  there  in  the 
doorway,  so  you  can't  deny  that  all  this  happened, 
as  you  usually  do,  you  know.  Anybody  can  see 
that  Caesar  is  a  very  sick  cat.  Shall  I  get  some 
brandy?" 

"Come,  come,  Ursula,"  Tom  added,  "don't  be 
a  little  donkey.  When  Caesar's  well,  love  is  all 
that's  needed,  I've  no  doubt;  but  now  he's  really 
sick,  and  you'd  better  have  a  doctor,  hadn't  you  ?" 

Ursula  looked  wildly  at  Martin,  bitterly  at 
Susy,  and  shamefacedly  at  her  father.  Then,  as 
Cassar  began  to  pant  alarmingly,  she  staggered  to 
her  feet  and  thrust  him  into  Susy's  arms. 

"Take  him!"  she  gasped.  "He  hasn't  had  any 
body  but  God  for  seven  years — but  take  him!" 

And  the  solemn  procession  moved  out  to  the 
laundry,  where  frenzied  chokings  and  splutter- 
ings,  followed  by  a  few  feeble  wails  and  then  a 
great  calm,  informed  the  unbeliever  that  a  brutal 
empiricism  had  triumphed  again  over  all  the 
subtleties  of  the  spirit. 

Unfortunately  the  actual  success  of  the  opera 
tion  was  not  quite  sufficient  to  lift  the  cloud  of 

264 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

discomfiture  produced  by  the  inadmissible  meth 
ods  employed,  and  Binks  and  Ursula  devoured 
their  chocolate  ice-cream  in  reproachful  gloom. 
It  may  be  a  little  unreasonable  in  four  adults  to 
allow  the  mental  depression  of  two  children  to 
a  fleet  them,  but  any  one  who  has  sat  through  a 
similar  banquet  knows  that  this  state  of  things 
is  quite  possible,  and  when  the  ruffled  though 
superior  mind  of  Mrs.  Carmichael  lost  itself  in 
polemic  and  explanatory  musings,  it  was  felt  that 
the  luncheon  was  not  wholly  a  social  success,  and 
guests  and  hosts  alike  had  become  a  little  em 
barrassed. 

This  was  not  helped  by  Tom's  third  refusal  of 
sponge-cake,  a  delicacy  pressed  upon  him  with 
cheerful  persistence  by  the  waitress. 

"I  never  eat  it,  Katy,"  he  explained  at  length, 
"it  doesn't  agree  with  me — never  did." 

"It's  a  very  reliable  recipe,"  the  hostess  urged, 
descending  suddenly  from  the  clouds  of  tran 
scendental  thought  which  were  popularly  supposed 
to  be  indicated  by  her  present  fixed  expression. 
"It's  been  three  generations  in  my  family,  and 
we've  always  given  it  to  the  children." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  Tom  assured  her  gallantly, 
"and  it  looks  delicious,  but  really,  I  might  just 
as  well  eat  a  bath-sponge,  Mrs.  Carmichael.  I've 
never  been  able  to  manage  it,  somehow." 

265 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

Ursula  looked  up  with  her  peculiar,  oblique 
glance. 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Wilbour,"  she  said  gently, 
and  the  amazed  Tom  felt  somehow  that  she  was 
distinctly  forgiving  him  for  some  unremembered 
sin,  "never  mind.  Go  right  ahead,  and  I'll  take 
care  of  it!" 

"'Take  care  of  it,' "  Tom  repeated  wonderingly, 
"You  dcVt  understand  me,  kiddy.  I  mean  that 
this  particular  kind  of  cake  seems  to — if  you'll 
excuse  the  frankness  of  the  remark — seems  to 
swell  up  like  a  dry  sponge  in  what  the  poet  so 
felicitously  calls  my  '  inside  workin's  '  and  makes 
me  very  uncomfy.  And  not  having  your — er — 
powers  of  hypnotic  suggestion,  I  just  have  to 
grin  and  bear  it." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Ursula  replied  mildly,  while  a 
curious  expression  grew  upon  her  father's  face — 
"I  know;  but  you  go  ahead  and  eat  it,  just  the 
same;  I'll  take  care  of  it  for  you." 

Martin  regarded  the  intrepid  child  with  deep 
admiration. 

"That's  how  I  eat  peanut -brittle,  father,"  he 
added  encouragingly,  "it  used  to  make  me  feel 
awful  queer  most  gen'rally,  but  sometimes  I  eat 
a  box  at  a  time  now." 

Tom's  color  grew  slowly  deeper — probably  from 
the  unconscious  holding  of  his  deep  breaths. 

266 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  mean  that  you  are 
prepared  to  assume  the  responsibility  for  my  diges 
tion  of  this  sponge-cake?"  he  demanded  formally. 

Mr.  Carmichael  looked  conservatively  at  his 
plate;  his  wife  appeared  to  resume  her  presence 
at  the  table,  and  regarded  her  daughter  with  im 
personal  approval.  .Susy  stared  in  utter  amaze 
ment. 

"Yes,"  Ursula  repeated  gently,  "I'll  attend  to 
it,  Mr.  Wilbour.  You  go  right  along." 

Tom  gripped  his  napkin  firmly  and  eyed  the 
child  with  cold  decision. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  began,  and  at  his 
tone  even  Miss  Carmichael  jumped  slightly,  "for 
forty-two  years,  now,  I  have  attended  to  my  own 
digestive  processes,  and  I  think,  if  it's  all  the 
same  to  you,  that  I'll  just  worry  along  in  my  old 
feeble-minded  way.  Probably  it  leaves  a  great 
deal  to  be  desired  from  a  professional  point  of 
view  like  yours,  but  it's  the  best  I  can  do,  and 
I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  let  it  go  at  that." 

Aft'rr  this  episode  no  one  suggested  the  Wil- 
bour's  departure,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  no  one 
deprecated  it,  and  as  Tom  freely  admitted  that 
he  had  no  appetite  for  his  usual  cigar,  the  trio  left 
very  soon  after  Katy,  somewhat  depressed  her 
self  by  now,  had  served  them  with  finger-bowls. 
Martin  had  intended  to  remain  and  join  Ursula 

267 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

and  her  father  on  their  accustomed  Sunday  af 
ternoon  stroll,  but  this  was  vetoed  by  Tom,  and 
at  his  short, 

"Come,  Binks,  hop  up,  now — no  arguing!''  the 
young  gentleman  climbed  resentfully  into  the 
small  front  seat,  absurdly  outgrown  by  now,  his 
features  set  in  a  decided  pout. 

"I  cannot  understand  what  Edith  is  thinking 
of!"  Susy  announced  finally,  when  the  short  drive 
had  been  accomplished  in  almost  utter  silence 
and  they  were  alone  in  the  library  again,  Martin 
having  established  himself  with  a  book  in  the 
drawing-room.  "This  is  really  too  much!" 

"I'm  glad  you  look  at  it  that  way,"  her  hus 
band  answered  briefly,  "because  as  far  as  I'm 
concerned,  Toots,  nothing  Binks  is  going  to  learn 
from  your  famous  rough  boys  by  the  pond  is 
going  to  handicap  him  for  life  like  this  particular 
brand  of  tommy-rot.  I'd  far  rather  lead  him  by 
the  hand  to  the  pond  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  dear,  Tom,  you  don't  know  how  rough 
they  are!" 

"No — I've  never  sported  with  them,  myself,  if 
that's  what  you  mean;  but  if  it's  the  ice-man's 
boy,  and  that  odd-job  man's  and  the  teamster's 
youngsters,  I  can  judge  pretty  well;  and,  honestly, 
dear,  I  doubt  if  they'll  contaminate  him  so  ter 
ribly,  anyhow." 

268 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"But,  Tom,  they  do  use  such  language!" 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"Gracious,  /  don't  know!  But  Bell  heard  them 
once,  and  she— 

"My  dear  girl,  my  respect  for  Bell  is  great, 
but  you  know  she's  only  a  children's  nurse,  when 
all's  said  and  done.  She  can't  possibly  judge 
about  how  much  a  ten-year-old  can  stand.  And 
you  know,  Susy,  there  are  lots  of  things  the  boy 
has  got  to  hear  that  you  and  Bell  won't  like. 
You've  got  to  make  up  your  mind  to  it  sooner  or 
later.  A  decent  boy  works  'em  out  of  his  system 
one  way  or  another,  but  unless  you  shut  him  into 
a  barrel  and  feed  him  through  the  bung-hole,  as 
somebody  said,  you  can't  prevent  his  knowing 
'em." 

"Do  you  want  him  to  know  them,  Tom?" 

"No,  I  can't  say  I  do,  exactly,"  Mr.  Wilbour 
answered  honestly,  "but  I've  got  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  you  see,  dear.  It's  one  of  those  things 
that  you  simply  can't  regulate.  If  you  think  that 
the  '  language '  that  frightened  Bell  is  a  monopoly 
of  those  rough  boys  by  the  pond,  you're  very 
much  mistaken.  It's  not  an  exclusive  product 
of  ponds,  I  assure  you,  dear.  We  get  over  it, 
though.  And  I  must  say  that  it's  going  to  be  a 
lot  healthier  for  Binks  to  absorb  a  little  of  that 
sort  of  grimy  vocabulary  while  he's  playing  ball 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

and  exercising  generally,  than  it's  likely  to  be  if 
he  hangs  around  that  morbid  little  idiot  while 
she's  digesting  other  people's  sponge-cake  for 
'em!" 

"So  you  see  what  I  mean,  now!"  Susy's  ap 
parent  irrelevance  expressed  a  certain  relief,  and 
her  husband  understood  her  readily  enough. 

"Oh  yes,  of  course,  if  she  does  that  sort  of 
thing  often,"  he  agreed  disgustedly.  "Til  take 
care  of  it,'  indeed — heavens  above!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Susy  said  hastily,  anxious  to  avert 
the  impending  tirade,  "but  about  Martin,  dear. 
Bell's  going  to  feel  awfully  about  those  boys— 
the  ice-man's  son  really  swears,  she  says.  I  don't 
know  what  she  will  say  when  I  tell  her  you  want 
him  to  play  with  them." 

Tom  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "Don't 
misunderstand  me,  Toots,"  he  began.  "I  don't 
say  I'd  pick  those  boys  out  as  my  one  best  bet, 
as  it  were— far  from  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you 
can't  pick  boys  out,  ever.  Certainly  not  in  this 
country,  anyhow.  I  shouldn't  like  to  think  he'd 
never  have  any  other  companions.  But  he  will: 
he's  sure  to.  And  how  do  you  know  how  much 
swearing  he's  heard,  anyway  ?  Do  you  think  he'd 
come  home  and  confide  it  to  you  and  Bell  as  soon 
as  he'd  acquired  it  ?  I  can  tell  you  I  didn't  hasten 
to  impart  every  addition  to  my  vocabulary  to 

270 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

Aunt  Em!  Not  much.  And  I  don't  think  I'm 
particularly  profane." 

"Why,  Tom,  of  course  not!" 

"Very  well.  Don't  you  suppose  I  heard  all 
the  words  you  and  Bell  are  worrying  about  ?  But 
I  can  usually  struggle  through  an  ordinary  con 
versation  without  them,  you  know." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Tom,"  she  sighed,  "what  a  re 
sponsibility  boys  are,  aren't  they?  I  see  what 
people  mean  when  they're  afraid  of  having  them." 

"Well,  I  don't  know." 

Tom  looked  thoughtful. 

"I'd  rather  have  Binks  on  my  mind  than 
Ursula — I  tell  you  that,  Tootie!" 

"Yes,  in  some  ways,  I  suppose  so,"  she  ad 
mitted. 

"You  see,  it's  not  what  the  boy  hears  but  what 
he  does  that  counts,  dear.  It's  that  young  lady's 
actions  that  get  on  my  nerves.  Now  if  Binks  says, 
as  I  hope  he  can  (by  and  large,  and  more  or  less, 
you  know)  that  he  hasn't  done  anything  he'd  be 
ashamed  to  have  you  know,  I'd  trust  him.  But 
if  he  ever  says  that  he  hasn't  heard  anything  he'd 
be  ashamed  to  have  you  hear,  he's  a  little  liar — 
you  can  be  sure  of  that!" 

At  this  Susy  only  murmured  inarticulately,  and 
there  was  a  short,  troubled  silence. 

"Of  course,  I  believe  that  you  know  about  all 
271 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

that,  dear,"  she  began  at  last,  "and  I  think,  my 
self,  that  he's  been  a  little  too  mueh  at  the  Car- 
michaels',  though  I'm  very  fond  of  Edith  in  a 
great  many  ways,  and  Mr.  Carmichael  has  been 
very  kind  to  Martin  and  taught  him  lots  about 
trees  and  animals  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

("Oh,  Carmichael's  all  right!") 

"But  we  mustn't  forbid  him  to  go  there  en 
tirely,  all  at  once.  It  will  be  a  regular  grievance 
with  him,  and  he  does  take  things  so  seriously, 
Tom." 

"Certainly  not — I  shouldn't  dream  of  it.  And 
you'll  find  it  will  be  all  right — if  you  give  him  a 
little  longer  rope,  Susy,  and  let  him  branch  out 
for  himself  more,  he'll  drop  all  that  nonsense  of  his 
own  accord.  A  little  of  the  girl  business  is  good 
for  'em,  anyway,"  Mr.  Wilbour  concluded  mag 
nanimously — "a  mixed  diet's  always  best." 

But  he  had  not  reckoned  sufficiently  on  his 
son's  firmness  of  disposition  (a  firmness  described 
by  Susy  as  a  combination  of  Brinkerhoff  decision 
of  character  and  Wilbour  obstinacy)  which  was, 
moreover,  pointed  by  a  certain  sulkiness  not  ob 
served  in  either  of  these  families.  Moreover,  Mar 
tin  had  always  displayed  a  marked  tendency 
toward  the  formation  of  habits  which,  once  set 
tled,  were  very  difficult  to  break  without  some 
distinct  crisis,  and  no  one  would  have  been  safe 

272 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

in  fixing  a  date  for  his  release  from  Ursula's  pros 
elytizing  influence  had  it  not  been  for  the  unex 
pected  appearance  on  the  scene  of  the  never-to- 
be-forgotten  Miss  Carmer. 

Miss  Carmer  was  portly  and  pink  and  placid. 
She  had  pepper-and-salt  hair  of  the  dank,  flat 
variety,  which  lay  flat  from  a  pink  part  that  bi 
sected  her  head.  She  had  a  double  chin,  and 
every  intention,  apparently,  of  acquiring  a  triple 
one  at  no  distant  date.  She  spoke  seldom  and 
gently — but  not  from  any  undue  softness  of  dis 
position  or  flaccidity  of  mind,  for  she  was  a  wom 
an  of  very  definite  and  determined  convictions. 
Upon  her  convictions,  in  fact,  and  her  determina 
tion  depended  her  livelihood,  for  Miss  Carmer  was 
what  used  to  be  called  a  "healer,"  though  at  the 
period  of  this  narrative  she  preferred  to  be  known 
as  a  "demonstrator."  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  been 
much  pleased  with  one  of  her  lectures,  and  had 
hospitably  invited  her  for  a  week's  unprofessional 
visit  before  her  autumn  labors  should  begin.  For 
Ursula's  mother,  though  small  and  spare,  was  the 
fortunate  possessor  of  a  constitution  of  steel,  and 
beyond  the  mysterious  attack  of  something  broad 
ly  described  as  nervous  breakdown,  on  the  occa 
sion,  eight  years  ago,  of  her  third  house-moving 
in  one  year,  had  never  required  the  services  of  any 
of  the  high-priestesses  of  her  then-acquired  faith. 

273 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

It  was  during  the  course  of  this  visit  that  Mar 
tin,  lunching  with  his  friends,  had  become  deeply 
impressed  with  the  big,  silent  woman,  whose  prac 
tical  good  sense  and  calm  banality  of  disposition 
appeared  in  every  one  of  her  few  words,  and 
struck  the  cynical  observer  as  singularly  at  vari 
ance  with  the  mystical  curiosities  of  her  extraor 
dinary  convictions.  For  one  so  bitterly  opposed 
to  the  usually  conceded  weight  of  the  material 
functions  of  life  she  certainly  absorbed  an  amaz 
ing  quantity  of  nourishment,  a  state  of  affairs  de 
scribed  less  elegantly  by  Mr.  Wilbour;  but  on 
the  other  hand,  as  Susy  pointed  out  with  some 
acumen,  to  manage  such  frequent  and  thorough 
refections  without  any  attendant  symptoms  of 
indigestion  implied  a  justified  reliance  upon  some 
superhuman  power  and  abilities  far  beyond  the 
normal. 

Martin  had  passed  his  life  among  talkative 
people,  and  it  was  probably  the  sphinx-like  placid 
ity  of  Miss  Carmer,  coupled  with  Ursula's  awed 
accounts  of  her  marvellous  powrers,  that  so  at 
tracted  him,  for  to  do  the  lady  justice,  she  never 
referred  to  her  unusual  endowments  herself,  and, 
indeed,  confined  her  exertions  to  eating  and  pon 
derously  rocking  to  and  fro  on  the  veranda, 
speaking,  in  the  words  of  the  juvenile  classic,  only 
when  she  was  spoken  to. 

274 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

During  the  luncheon  in  question  Ursula  had 
been  voluble  in  the  description  of  one  of  her 
schoolmates,  who  had  fallen  a  victim  to  a  mis 
placed  confidence  in  the  decorative  qualities  of 
poison-ivy,  and  paid  for  the  vanity  of  appearing 
in  a  red  wreath  of  it  by  a  shocking  condition  of 
the  usual  puffy  and  painful  countenance. 

"I  told  her,"  observed  the  young  disciple  dog 
matically,  "that  if  she  had  told  Miss  Carmer 
about  it,  she  needn't  have  had  that  nasty  lauda 
num  sopped  on  at  all,  but  Miss  Carmer  could  have 
demonstrated  right  from  our  piazza,  and  you 
could — couldn't  you,  Miss  Carmer?" 

"I  could  if  I  had  been  called  upon,"  Miss  Car 
mer  replied  briefly. 

"Do  you  mean  it  wouldn't  have  itched?"  Mar 
tin  inquired  abruptly. 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  the  demonstrator 
placidly. 

"Wouldn't  she  scratch  it  once — not  once?"  he 
insisted. 

"I  do  not  think  there  would  be  any  necessity," 
the  reservoir  of  mental  power  responded. 

Martin  said  no  more,  but  appeared  sunk  in 
thought,  and  left  the  house  alone,  to  Ursula's 
surprise. 

A  few  hours  later — to  be  precise,  at  the  end  of 
the  time  required  for  his  arrival  after  the  after- 
is  275 


THE    BIOGRAPNY    OF    A    BOY 

noon  session  of  his  school — he  leaped  up  the  veran 
da  steps  where  the  family  were  gathered  to  cele 
brate  the  somewhat  formidable  function  of  Miss 
Carmer's  afternoon  tea,  and  sank  panting  and 
cross-legged  at  her  substantial,  square-toed  feet. 

"Hurry  up,  Miss  Carmer,  hurry  up!"  he  cried 
eagerly,  "if  you'll  demonstrate  right  away  father 
'11  see  you,  driving  by,  and  then  he'll  see  you  real 
ly  can  do  it!" 

"What  do  you  mean?  Demonstrate  what?" 
Miss  Carmer  inquired  with  some  distaste,  with 
drawing  her  neat  skirts,  and  casting  a  displeased 
glance  at  her  cooling  and  threatened  tea-cup. 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  he  demanded,  sur 
prised  and  disappointed.  "Can't  you  tell?  I 
thought  you  could.  Ursula  said  you  didn't  care 
if  the  door  was  shut,  or  if  it  was  even  in  a  dif 
ferent  house,  and  the  graveyard  isn't  any  farther 
away  than  anybody's  house  might  be  .  .  ." 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  you  are  talking 
about.  Don't  jog  my  plate,  please,"  said  Miss 
Carmer  coldly. 

Martin  drew  a  long  breath.  He  felt  distinctly 
less  heroic  and  interesting,  somehow,  than  before 
this  disconcerting  conversational  shower-bath, 
and  the  expression  of  his  hostess  was  no  aid  to 
his  first  enthusiasm. 

"Why,  it  was  the  poison-ivy,"  he  explained, 
276 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

less  vivaciously  but  still  trustful.  "I  poison  aw 
ful  easy,  and  I  was  quite  hot  when  I  rubbed  it  in; 
it  grows  on  the  'Piscopal  graveyard  wall,  you 
know,  on  the  way  home,  and  I  rubbed  it  in  well; 
I  knew  you  wouldn't  care  about  that.  Then 
that  girl's  father  and  mother  could  see  for  them 
selves — and  mine,  too,"  he  added,  pushing  out 
his  lip  in  a  characteristic  manner  all  too  familiar 
to  one  who  knew  him  well.  "Will  you  do  it  out 
here?  You'd  better  begin  now,  though,  for  it's 
itching  like  the  dickens,  Miss  Carmer!" 

There  was  a  deadly  silence.  Ursula's  round 
eyes  alone  contributed  to  his  self-respect,  for  the 
Carmichaels  sat  petrified  with  horror,  and  Miss 
Carmer,  as  she  deposited  her  cup  and  plate  heavily 
on  the  piazza  rail  and  rose  slowly  to  her  feet, 
looked  at  him  as  though  he  were  some  noxious 
insect.  A  dark  flush  spread  over  her  broad,  calm 
face,  and  her  voice  broke  from  its  usual  practised 
placidity  as  she  shook  her  finger  at  him  quite  in  the 
manner  of  the  unregenerate  and  faithless  citizen. 

"Do  you  mean,  you  bad  little  boy,  that  you 
have  deliberately  applied  poison-ivy  to  your  face 
as — as  a  test?"  she  cried,  puffing  out  her  cheeks 
portentously. 

Martin  nodded  dumbly. 

"Then  I  hope  that  you.  will  be  well  punished 
for  such  shameful  behavior!"  she  declared.  "I 

277 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

never  heard  of  anything  more  disgraceful — / 
should  certainly  refuse  to  treat  you!"  And  she 
swept  majestically  to  her  room. 

"The  kid's  game,  anyway,  Toots,"  said  Tom 
the  next  day,  looking  down  thoughtfully  at  the 
bandaged,  feverish  little  object  writhing  among 
its  laudanum-soaked  pillows,  two  dots  of  eyes 
like  shoe-buttons  just  glimmering  above  the 
swollen  cheeks.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  he's  a 
what-do-you-call-it — a  martyr  to  Science,  if  you 
want  to  look  at  it  that  way.  And  Lord  knows 
he's  punished  enough." 

Susy  shook  her  head  helplessly. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him,"  she  whis 
pered  sadly.  "Did  you  ever  know  a  child  that 
took  things  so  literally?  He  is  so  set,  Tom! 
Ursula  would  never  do  a  thing  like  that,  you 
know.  And  she  really  believes  it." 

"Pooh!  she  hasn't  got  the  nerve,"  the  martyr's 
father  returned  with  inexplicable  pride.  "The 
little  devil  certainly  gave  the  woman  her  chance, 
you  must  admit." 

Susy  sighed,  and  approached  the  sofa  with  a 
cooling  draught. 

"No,  Martin,  no  pudding,"  she  said  firmly; 
"the  doctor  says  you  must  not  overload  your 
stomach,  with  your  temperature,  dear." 

278 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

From  the  puffed  lips  behind  the  soaked  cotton 
came  a  distorted  murmur. 

"God  made  my  stomach!"  declared  the  victim 
obstinately. 

Tom  gulped  wildly,  a  prey  to  conflicting 
emotions. 

"That's  all  right,  old  man,"  he  said  at  length, 
"so  He  did.  But  He  made  your  brains,  too,  you 
know,  and  if  you'll  use  'em  a  little,  He'll  do  as 
much  for  you  in  the  end,  you'll  find." 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  Martin  caught  his 
meaning. 


IX 


WHICH    DEALS   WITH   THE    CHANCES   AND 
CHANGES    OF   THIS    MORTAL  LIFE 

T  was  a  fresh  April  morning,  clear 
and  fine  —  a  skyful  of  woolly  white 
clouds  above  and  the  tender  green 
grass  of  an  early  spring  already 
firm  under  foot.  To  Mrs  Wilbour, 
neat  and  taut  in  a  business-like,  short  tweed  skirt, 
an  unmitigated  high,  stiff  collar,  and  competent 
gauntleted  driving-gloves,  the  day  would  once 
have  been  a  day  for  a  lazy  morning  expedition 
with  Fido,  Martin,  and  Thomas  tucked  in  beside 
her,  Lappy  and  Drabble  gambolling  behind,  per 
haps  even  a  picnic  luncheon  in  a  warm  hollow 
some  few  miles  off.  It  is  certain  that  she  would 
have  hummed  a  little  tune  on  her  way  to  the 

280 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

stable,  and  called  the  attention  of  its  oecupant 
to  the  gracious  state  of  the  weather  and  the  gen 
erally  amusing  character  of  life  in  the  mounting 
spring. 

But  those  days  were  no  more.  Mrs.  Wilbour's 
hasty  glance  at  the  firmament  had  produced  no 
further  emotional  result  than  a  conviction  that 
the  chickens  had  better  be  turned  out  directly, 
and  thus  allow  the  double  advantage  of  healthy 
exercise  after  a  long  rainy  period,  and  an  oppor 
tunity  for  whitewashing  the  roosts,  which  con 
viction  she  promptly  imparted  to  Harvey  Roper, 
who  shared  with  Myron  Plummer  the  responsi 
bilities  of  the  now  much-extended  establishment. 
Nor  was  there  to  be  observed  upon  Harvey's  face 
a  trace  of  the  tolerant  amusement  that  marked 
for  so  long  Myron's  relations  with  his  mistress. 
On  Susy's  consulting  the  little  watch  in  her  leather 
wristlet  and  suggesting  that  she  had  expected 
to  find  the  stable-work  done  by  now,  Harvey 
agreed  humbly  that  there  was  some  reason  in  her 
expectation,  and  that  he  guessed  he  was  a  little 
behindhand,  maybe. 

' '  And  if  there  are  more  than  three  horses  ahead 
of  Fido  at  the  blacksmith's,  Harvey,"  she  con 
tinued,  "don't  wait,  but  go  for  the  ice  directly. 
We  can't  spare  all  day  for  it.  Take  the  old 
station-wagon  with  one  seat,  and  bring  back 

281 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

Myron's  phosphates  and  your  own  hominy.  I'll 
go  down  for  Mr.  Wilbour  myself  with  Princess 
and  the  phaeton.  That  man  is  coming  at  five 
to  look  over  the  heifer,  and  I  didn't  put  any  price 
on  her — I'd  like  to  see  what  he'll  offer.  If  he 
wants  to  bring  over  those  young  peach-trees  he 
spoke  of,  and  put  them  in  himself,  we  might  con 
sider  that  instead  of  cash.  But  he'll  have  to  be 
responsible." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Harvey  respectfully.  "Do  you 
want  I  sh'd  catch  Martin's  guinea-hens  again? 
They're  off,  and  I  can't  promise  when  I'll  be  able 
to  get  'em — they're  awful  cute  about  hidin'  on 
me.  He  ain't  fed  the  goat  for  two  nights  runnin', 
either,  and  his  guinea-pigs  is  in  a  condition,  I  c'n 
tell  you!  O'  course,  I'm  willin'  to  tend  to  'em 
all,  Mis'  Wilbour;  'tain't  that,  but  you  told  me  to 
tell  you,  and  so  I  do." 

"Certainly,  Harvey,  that's  quite  right.  And 
Saturday  morning,  too — it's  disgraceful!  Do  you 
know  where  he  is?" 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  Susy  pulled  a 
little  silver  whistle  from  her  belt  and  blew  a  shrill 
blast.  A  moment  later  there  came  a  patter  of 
feet,  and  Thomas,  trousered  and  shirted  now,  and 
astonishingly  tall,  his  plump,  baby  lines  all  gone, 
trotted  obediently  through  the  barn-yard,  where 
a  wire  enclosure  restrained  the  ducks  from  any 

282 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

farther  excursions  than  their  own  generous  tank 
afforded,  stopped  to  pat  the  tiny  new  calf  that 
nozzled  for  his  little  brown  thumb,  and  sucked 
at  it  to  his  vociferous  delight,  and  stood  obedient 
ly  before  his  mother. 

"Have  you  done  your  work,  dear?  Is  the 
veranda  all  clean  ?  Are  the  puppy's  pans  empty  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  the  youth  responded  virtu 
ously,  "I'm  all  done  my  works — all  of  them;  but 
Martin,  he  won't  do  nothing  at  all— 

("Anything.") 

" — anything  at  all,  he  won't  do,  and  he's  reading 
a  magazine-book  on  the  kitchen  porch,  and  he's 
going  to  have  a  frosted  cake  just  the  same.  Can't 
Thomas  have  a  frosted  cake  just  the  same,  too?" 

"Certainly  not,"  she  answered,  decidedly;  "the 
cakes  are  for  luncheon.  If  you  are  hungry  at 
half-past  ten,  you  may  have  bread-and-butter. 
Tell  Martin  to  come  directly  to  me  in  the  hay- 
barn.  Did  he  hear  the  whistle?" 

"Yes,  he  did  heard  it,  and  he  said  he  was  too 
big  to  come  like  a  puppy,  he  said,  and  he  thought 
he  might  get  a  headache  if  he  earned  in  the  sun- 
Harvey  chuckled,  and  Susy  left  the  stable  with 
dignity. 

"And  don't  ask  me  for  a  new  carriage-sponge 
this  month,  Harvey,  if  they  are  to  be  used  for  the 
stable  stairs,"  she  said  severely,  "  for  they  cost  a 

283 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

little  too  much.  They  tell  me  in  the  kitchen  that 
the  strainer  of  the  milk-pail  is  broken  again,  and 
that  they  have  to  use  two  cheese-cloths — I  should 
much  prefer  to  know  about  these  things  when 
they  happen.  And  the  laundry  man  says  that  he 
cannot  be  responsible  for  Mr.  Wilbour's  shirts  if 
they  stick  out  of  the  end  of  the  wagon  in  a  rain 
storm.  That  is  certainly  reasonable.  Come, 
Thomas,  mother  will  take  you  with  her  to  see 
Mrs.  Carmichael,  after  I've  finished  up  here.—  Is 
that  the  strap  of  the  mail-bag,  Harvey,  on  the 
harness-room  floor?" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Harvey  meekly,  picking  up  the 
offending  strap  and  glaring  revengefully  at  the 
misused  carriage-sponge,  "I  guess  it  is.  Martin, 
he  was  asking  if  he  could  have  it  to  put  around 
an  old  dress-suit  case  he  had  out  here  for  me  to 
mend." 

"For  you  to  mend!"  Susy  paused  in  the  door 
disgustedly.  "How  often  have  I  asked  you, 
Harvey,  not  to  pay  any  attention  to  Martin  when 
he  takes  up  your  time  that  way?  It's  one  thing 
in  the  winter,  when  there's  more  time,  but  now 
it's  ridiculous.  What  does  he  want  of  a  suit-case, 
anyway?" 

"I  don't  know,  Miss  Wilbour;  he  said  some 
thing  about  needing  one  very  bad,  and  I  said 
there  was  that  old  one  in  the  loft  that  Mr.  Wil- 

284 


TME    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

hour  spoiled,  packin'  it  full  o'  wet  bathin'-suits, 
so  he  swarmed  up  'n'  got  it,  and  I  was  just  givin' 
him  a  little  help  with  it,  that's  all." 

At  this  point  Martin  was  observed  on  the  drive 
way,  lagging  along  with  a  twisty,  awkward  gait 
recently  acquired  by  him,  to  his  mother's  intense 
annoyance.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  tattered  maga 
zine  ;  from  the  other  depended  the  rapidly  length 
ening  tail  of  a  ball  of  heavy  twine,  which  he 
dragged,  somewhat  ill-ad visedly,  by  the  end  farth 
est  from  the  ball.  His  expression  was  one  of  deep 
injury,  not  materially  lightened  by  his  mother's 
pardonable  chiding. 

' '  Martin  Wilbour,  are  you  crazy  ?  Where  is  the 
rest  of  that  cord?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  placidly.  "Thomas 
said  I  wasn't  to  wait  a  single  minute,  but  come 
right  away,  so  I  came  just  as  I  was.  Did  you 
want  me?" 

"I  want  you  to  act  like  a  sensible  boy  and  not 
a  baby.  Go  and  wind  up  that  cord." 

With  many  shufflings  and  sighs  Martin  re 
traced  his  steps,  like  some  allegorical  character, 
and  appeared  presently  with  a  bulging  pocket. 

"Now,  Martin  (please  hold  your  shoulders  more 
even;  look  how  straight  Thomas  stands),  I  want 
you  to  make  up  your  mind,  once  for  all,  on  the 
subject  of  these  pets  of  yours.  When  Mr.  Car- 

285 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Or    A    BOY 

michael  gave  you  the  guinea-pigs,  you  were  per 
fectly  delighted  with  them  and  nearly  stuffed 
them  to  death;  now  you  neglect  them  terribly. 
The  guinea-hens  you  could  have  had  quite  a  lit 
tle  money  from  if  you  had  attended  to  the  eggs 
and  chicks;  father  offered  to  buy  them  regularly 
of  you,  he's  so  fond  of  them.  But  here  it's  the 
fourth  time  they've  run  away  this  week,  and  you 
can't  even  help  Harvey  hunt  for  them." 

"Oh,  well  .  .  .  why  do  all  my  pets  have  to  be 
guinea-pets,  anyway?  I'll  bet  they  don't  like 
to  be  called  that,  and  that's  why  they  run  away. 
You  know,  Myron  called  that  big  Italian  a  ginney 
and  he  nearly  brained  him  with  his  shovel— 

"Martin!" 

"Well,  that's  what  Myron  said — they  just  won't 
stand  it.  So  it  isn't  lucky  for  pets,  maybe." 

"That's  absurd,  Martin — it's  not  the  same 
thing  at  all." 

"Why  isn't  it  the  same  thing  at  all?" 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "if  it  is  the  same  word, 
which  I  suppose  it  is,  it  certainly  doesn't  apply 
to  pets.  They're  not  likely  to  brain  you  with  a 
shovel.  Now,  I'm  going  to  make  a  definite  rule, 
Martin,  and  you'll  find  that  I  mean  it.  If  you 
can't  take  care  of  your  pets,  they  will  be  taken 
away." 

"Taken  away?" 

286 


NOW,     MARTIN,      PLEASE      HOLD      YOUR      SHOULDERS 
MORE    EVEN  " 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"Disposed  of." 

Susy  looked  at  him  with  the  air  of  one  who 
finishes  a  situation  absolutely;  she  had  no  doubt 
of  the  result. 

Martin  pursed  his  lips  and  eyed  her  calculat- 
ingly. 

"How  disposed  of?"  he  said  slowly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I'll  decide  that  later.  I 
mean  that  you  will  be  deprived  of  them;  that's 
the  main  thing." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  about  that.  I  don't  want 
'em.  But  I  think  you  ought  to  buy  'em  off  me. 
They're  mine." 

"'Buy  them  of  me!'  Why,  Martin  Wilbour! 
What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  they're  too  much  trouble.  They're 
nice  enough  to  have,  but  I  forget  them  so." 

"But  that's  just  it;  you  ought  not  to  forget 
them." 

"Oh,  well,  I'd  rather  forget  them.  I  don't 
think  there's  as  much  fun  to  'em  as  there  is 
bother.  What's  the  good  of  'em,  anyway?" 

Susy  stared  at  him  doubtfully;  there  was  ob 
viously  nothing  criminal  in  his  preference,  but 
she  had  not  for  long  wanted  to  spank  him  so 
thoroughly. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  Martin," 
she  began  at  length.  "Are  you  in  earnest?" 

289 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said  negligently.  "Did  you 
think  I  was  fooling?  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  'tend 
to  'em,  anyway,"  he  added  with  apparent  irrel 
evance. 

"It  seems  to  me  you  say  nothing  but  'any 
way,'"  his  mother  observed.  "All  your  remarks 
end  with  it. — I  don't  think  your  father  will  want 
you  to  be  without  any  duties,  however,  Martin. 
If  you  don't  care  for  your  pets,  we  must  find 
something  regular  for  you  to  do ;  he  doesn't  want 
you  to  grow  up  as  irresponsible  as  you  are  now." 

He  shot  a  curious  look  at  her. 

"I  should  think  children  would  be  about  as 
much  trouble  as  pets,"  he  remarked  casually. 

"I  can  assure  you  they  are,"  she  replied  with 
an  absent  glance  at  her  watch.  "Come,  Thomas, 
if  you  want  to  take  a  drive  with  mother." 

They  left  Martin  busy  with  the  straps  and 
buckles  of  the  bulging  old  suit-case,  Thomas  will 
ingly  deserting  an  elder  brother  who  frankly 
found  him  in  the  way  and  deliberately  escaped 
his  offered  company,  Susy  with  a  vague  feeling 
that  Martin  was  so  changed  she  hardly  knew  what 
tone  to  take  with  him,  and  that  there  must  be 
some  way,  if  she  only  knew  it,  of  training  him 
into  the  consecutive  habits  she  found  so  necessary 
to  her  present  busy  life.  But  it  was  not  to  be 
denied  that  Tom  and  Mr.  Carmichael  managed 

290 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

him  better;  often,  indeed,  she  had  applied  to  the 
latter  to  use  his  influence  with  the  boy  in  one  of 
his  obstinate  moods,  and  seldom  in  vain. 

She  herself,  oddly  enough,  appeared  to  have 
won  an  almost  corresponding  position  with  Ursu 
la;  though  she  was  not  yet  particularly  fond  of 
the  child,  her  practical,  quick  decisions  impressed 
the  little  creature  far  more  than  her  mother's 
philosophical  theorizings,  and  the  knowledge  of 
this  could  not  fail  to  soften  Susy's  heart  toward 
her  by  little  and  little. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  was  stretched  comfortably  on 
a  couch  upon  her  up-stairs  veranda,  wrapped  in 
a  long  coat,  imbibing  a  late  cup  of  morning  choco 
late.  She  smiled  gently  at  her  guest's  almost 
accusing  air  of  trig  busyness,  waved  her  to  a  seat, 
and  fell  into  a  more  than  usually  prolonged  fit  of 
meditation,  while  Susy,  more  ruffled  than  she 
knew  by  Martin's  unexpected  flank  movement  in 
the  matter  of  his  pets,  poured  forth  her  tale  of 
duties  and  responsibilities,  concluding  virtuously: 

"And  so  I  don't  see  how  we  can  possibly  get 
away,  Edith,  even  for  Sunday.  You  and  Mr. 
Carmichael  seem  to  run  off  whenever  you  want 
to—" 

"Why,  of  course  we  do — why  not  ?  We  haven't 
invented  all  these  stable  and  barn  -  yard  duties, 
you  know.  Of  course,  if  you'd  rather  do  them  ..." 

19  2QI 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Oh,  dear!  you  begin,  and  you  can't  stop!  I 
do  want  to  do  them,  of  course,  or  I  wouldn't! 
But  sometimes  it  seems  as  if  Martin  might  be 
right.  He  told  me  to-day  about  those  guinea- 
pigs  that  there  wasn't  as  much  fun  to  them  as 
there  was  bother!" 

"I  quite  agree  with  him,"  said  Mrs.  Carmichael 
placidly—  "  have  for  five  years.  And  do  you 
know,  my  dear  Susy,"  she  went  on,  looking  sud 
denly  with  one  of  her  keen,  bird-like  glimpses 
straight  at  her  guest  and  losing  utterly  for  the 
moment  her  air  of  transcendental  re  very — "do 
you  know  that  you're  getting  just  a  little  like 
the  other  back-to-the-soil  people  I  know — just 
a  little  priggish  about  it?" 

"Priggish?  I?  Why,  Edith  Carmichael,  what 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  precisely  what  I  say,  my  dear.  There's 
nothing  particularly  virtuous  in  growing  your  own 
oats,  you  know.  If  you  like  to  do  it,  all  right; 
but  you're  fast  getting  to  the  stage  where  you 
thank  God  that  you're  not  as  other  men  are  who 
don't.  It's  that  I  complain  of  in  all  you  people. 
You  get  it  into  your  heads,  somehow,  that  you're 
making  tremendous  sacrifices  for  your  particular 
fads  and  ought  to  be  admired  for  your  magnifi 
cent  attitude,  whereas,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it's 
just  like  most  fads — a  matter  of  taste.  If  you'd 

292 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

rather  buy  a  car-load  of  guano  than  go  for  a 
week-end  to  Atlantic  City,  why,  that's  your 
affair.  We  wouldn't,  that's  all." 

Susy  looked  somewhat  consciously  at  the  floor, 
and  her  hostess,  refreshing  herself  with  a  swallow 
of  chocolate,  continued,  with  a  distinct  air  of 
clearing  her  mind : 

"It's  not  as  if  Tom  was  a  farmer,  you  know. 
He's  not;  he's  a  lawyer,  and  makes  a  good  in 


come  at  it.  If  you  want  to  spend  it  on  a  country- 
place,  well  and  good;  but  if  you  really  want  to 
save  it  for  him,  as  you  imply  so  constantly,  you'd 
much  better  put  it  in  the  bank,  I  can  assure  you. 
Not  that  I  am  arguing  for  a  moment  that  you 
ought  to  save  it,  you  know.  In  fact,  I  distinctly 

293 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

believe  you  oughtn't,  unless  he  plans  to  retire 
early.  I'd  spend  it,  and  get  all  the  fun  I  could  out 
of  it — but  don't  put  on  so  many  airs  over  it.  You 
collect  heifers,  and  Mat  collects  tables,  and  as  far 
as  the  investment  goes,  on  the  scale  you  both  do 
it,  he  is  really  doing  better.  He  can  prove  it  to 
you,  if  you  like." 

"We  came  into  the  country  for  the  children," 
Susy  began  defensively. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!" 

Mrs.  Carmichael  sat  up  on  her  couch. 

"Supposing  you  did,  you  got  on  very  well  for 
the  first  two  years,  didn't  you  ?  That  was  all 
right,  that  part  of  it.  But  the  children  don't 
need  all  those  rods  and  rods  of  stone  walls  and  all 
that  swamp-draining,  do  they?  Just  admit  that 
you  and  Tom  like  it  and  can  afford  it,  and  would 
rather  do  it  than  go  to  the  opera,  and  I  haven't 
a  word  to  say.  But  don't  look  so  virtuous  when 
Mat  and  I  patronize  the  livery-stable  and  hear 
Pagliacci — that '  s  all ! " 

Susy  looked  thoughtful. 

"But  Edith,"  she  began,  "don't  you  really 
believe— 

"No,  I  don't.  I  know  what  you  mean,  of 
course :  developing  a  country-place  is  better  and 
more  respectable  than  horse-racing,  certainly. 
But  it's  no  better,  in  your  case,  than  anything  else 

294 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP    A    BOY 

that  does  no  more  harm.  What  I  believe  you  do 
is  just  this,  Susy:  I  believe  you  unconsciously 
compare  it  in  your  mind  with  what  the  Sunday 
papers  call  the  'social  whirl,'  and  congratulate 
yourself  that  you're  not  wasting  your  time  on 
what  is  known  as  the  'empty  round'  of  dinners 
and  operas  and  receptions  and  dressmakers  that 
a  certain  set  of  people  have  identified  themselves 
with  in  all  the  great  cities  of  the  world.  But 
that  class  is  so  small — and  you  never  belonged 
to  it,  anyway,  did  you  ?  As  I  understand  it, 
you  got  tired  of  the  little  you  did  of  it,  and 
took  this  up  because  you  liked  it  better,  on  the 
whole. 

"Just  as  I  got  tired  of  travelling,  for  a  while  .  .  . 
fora  while  ..."  she  repeated  musingly,  "and  came 
back  here  for  a  change.  But  anybody  would 
think  that  you  had  abandoned  the  hollow  joys 
of  society  and  decided  to  raise  pigs  to  the  glory 
of  God — whereas  I  think  I've  really  done  more 
for  the  country  by  pushing  the  rural  free  delivery 
back  five  miles,  and  keeping  that  vile  saloon-man 
off  the  school-board,  than  you  have  with  your 
corn-silo,  that  only  benefited  yourself,  when  you 
come  to  that. 

"I  only  mention  this,"  she  concluded  apolo 
getically,  "because  you  do  act  so,  of  late,  Susy, 
as  if  you  were  so  noble!  I'm  perfectly  willing  to 

295 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

admit  that  I  only  wanted  the  fun  of  trying  to  run 
local  politics — and  I  did,  and  it  was  fun!" 

She  settled  back  among  her  pillows  and  drained 
her  cup.  Susy,  who  had  never  heard  her  friend 
make  so  long  a  speech  in  the  course  of  their  ac 
quaintance,  was  far  more  impressed  by  this  one 
than  as  if  her  husband  or  Tom  had  been  respon 
sible  for  it,  and  remembered  suddenly  that  Edith 
was  famous  for  her  occasional  "papers"  in  the 
local  women's  club. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  she  admitted  after  a 
moment.  "Tom  says  I'm  getting  rather  snippy 
—whatever  he  means." 

"He  means  just  that,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  as 
sured  her,  "though,  of  course,"  she  added  consci 
entiously,  "he's  awfully  proud  of  all  your  exec 
utive  ability,  and  all  that.  He  told  Mat  he  never 
dreamed  you  had  it  in  you." 

Hostess  and  guest  became  thoughtful  at  this 
and  stared  at  the  blue  sky,  where  the  white 
clouds  raced. 

"Mat's  getting  very  restless,"  Edith  announced 
abruptly.  "I'm prepared  for  anything  nowadays." 

"Anything?" 

Susy  felt  a  distinct  qualm ;  she  had  grown  much 
attached  to  these  interesting  if  somewhat  erratic 
neighbors,  and  relied  more  than  she  realized  on 
their  friendly  good-humor. 

296 


THE   BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Of  course,  I  can't  tell,  but  when  he  gets  this 
way  in  the  spring  I  always  feel  that  something's 
in  the  wind.  That's  why  I'm  taking  plenty  of 
rest  now." 

Susy  rose  a  little  dispiritedly;  this  visit  had 
given  her  much  food  for  thought,  and  the  list  of 
duties  on  her  little  leather  tablets  seemed,  some 
how,  less  important  and  attractive  than  the  pict 
ure  of  her  friend's  cushions  and  chocolate  among 
the  blue  and  white  and  green  of  the  fresh,  tempt 
ing  day.  It  was  on  just  such  a  day  that  she  and 
Tom  had  driven  Martin  to  his  first  school,  long 
ago  —  how  long  it  seemed,  now  !  How  jolly 
they  had  been,  and  what  nonsense  they  had 
talked  —  it  seemed  as  if  they  never  talked 
anything  but  plans  and  bills  and  farm  affairs 
now  .  .  . 

She  unhitched  Princess  capably,  and  climbed 
into  the  wagon,  still  thinking.  Along  the  road 
there  trudged  a  familiar  figure — only  a  little  un 
usual  from  the  absence  of  a  small  boy  and  girl, 
one  hanging  at  either  hand — a  cracked,  gilt-edged 
mirror  under  his  arm. 

"How  are  you?"  he  called  cheerily.  "Grand 
day,  isn't  it?  See  the  eagle  on  this?  I  had  to 
pay  six  dollars  for  it.  I  tell  you,  prices  are  going 
up,  about  here — it's  time  I  moved!" 

He  fell  into  a  steady,  swinging  walk  beside  the 
297 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT    A    BOY 

phaeton   (a  favorite  habit  of  his)  and  continued 
his  customary  desultory  monologue. 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  time  I  kicked  off  the  dust  of  this 
sophisticated  spot — we're  going  to,  by  the  way- 
did  you  know  it  ?" 

"Not  really,  Mr.  Carmichael?" 

Susy's  voice  showed  her  regret,  and  he  acknowl 
edged  it  with  a  whimsical  nod. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  think  we'll  be  off  by  the  end  of  the 
summer." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Well,  I  rather  think  I'll  try  Australia,"  said 
Mr.  Carmichael  calmly. 

Susy  jumped  and  twitched  her  reins  nervously. 

' '  Why,  Matthew  Carmichael  —  what  do  you 
mean?" 

' '  Why  not  ? "  he  returned  imperturbably .  ' '  Aus- 
tralia's  a  good  place.  And  then  I  could  look 
up  my  stuff,  that  poor  old  Brundage  got,  you 
know.  I've  never  got  over  those  wedding-chests, 
to  tell  the  truth.  Then  I'd  like  to  look  into  this 
ranch  business  a  bit.  Brundage's  brother  only 
needs  a  little  capital  to  make  a  really  good  thing 
of  his,  he  writes  me,  and  I'd  like  to  take  a  try 
at  it." 

"But — but — why,  I  never  heard  of  anything 
so  absurd!  You  hate  farming — you  set  Tom 
against  my  sheep — 

298 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"Oh,  well,  there's  nothing  in  it  here,"  he  in 
terrupted,  "it's  too  pottering.  It's  a  very  differ 
ent  story  over  there.  And  the  climate  would  do 
wonders  for  Deedy,  I  think." 

Susy  gasped. 

"Does  she  know  about  it?" 

"No-o,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  "I  don't 
believe  she  does,  now  I  think  of  it — I  didn't  men 
tion  it.  But  I  have  an  idea  she  suspects  some 
thing's  up,  more  or  less.  She's  about  ready  to 
start,  too,  I  imagine.  Deedy  gets  very  restless  in 
the  spring — drops  all  her  fads,  you  know,  and 
fusses  around.  I  can't  describe  it  exactly,  but 
I  always  know." 

Susy  burst  into  laughter. 

"You  are  the  strangest  couple  I  know!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "You  call  it  a  fad  to  stay  in  one  place, 
like  a  sensible,  normal  family,  then?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  do,"  he  said  seriously. 
"It's  just  a  matter  of  taste,  isn't  it?" 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  yards,  and  then  he 
put  his  hand  on  the  wheel. 

"I  turn   off  here,"  he   said.     "There's  an  old 

square  piano  down  this  road  I  want  the  legs  of. 

I  hope  you'll  let  Martin  come  over  a  lot  till  we  go 

—Ursula  will  miss  him  badly.    You — you  wouldn't 

think  of  letting  us  take  him  along,  I  suppose?" 

"Good  gracious,  no!"  she  cried.  "The  idea!" 
299 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

"I  supposed  not,"  he  soothed  her  hastily,  "but 
I  can't  help  thinking  it  would  be  a  great  chanee 
for  the  little  fellow  —  betwreen  you  and  me  we 
aren't  likely  to  stay  there  forever." 

Susy  pulled  Princess  up  abruptly. 

"I  think  you  are  raving  crazy!"  she  declared. 
' '  Why  should  it  be  a  good  thing  for  a  ten-year-old 
boy  to  leave  his  home  ?  What  place  could  be  bet 
ter  for  him?" 

Mr.  Carmichael  smoothed  the  tarnished  mirror 
reflectively  with  his  cuff. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  vaguely.  "That's 
only  an  American  idea,  you  know.  It  depends 
a  lot  on  the  home  and  the  boy,  I  should  say,  my 
self.  The  men  around  New  York  seem  to  see  so 
little  of  their  boys — I've  always  noticed  it.  And 
women  can't  bring  boys  up — not  properly  speak 
ing,  you  know.  And  Martin's  outgrown  that 
school  of  his,  Mrs.  Wilbour — he  really  has.  You 
ought  to  know  it.  He's  a  corking  little  fellow 
—perfectly  corking.  I'd  give  anything  for  one  like 
him;  but  there's  no  denying  he's  pretty  obstinate." 

"I  know,"  Susy  admitted  soberly;  "we'll  miss 
you  with  Martin  a  lot." 

"I  suppose  Ursula's  over  at  your  place  now," 
he  said,  turning  to  go  and  showing  by  his  sudden 
brusqueness  his  masculine  dread  of  having  inter 
fered  in  affairs  not  his  own.  Susy  understood 

300 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

and  was  grateful  for  the  quick  change ;  every  one 
seemed  unaccountably  bent  upon  opening  her 
eyes  to  unpleasant  truths  to-day. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  carelessly. 
"They're  probably  hunting  for  you.  Good-bye! 
Good-luck  with  the  piano-legs!" 

At  the  door  Bell  met  her.  "Mr.  Wilbour  won't 
be  out  till  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Wilbour,"  she  informed 
her.  "He's  got  a  board  meeting  to-night,  he  tel 
ephoned,  and  he'll  be  at  the  club,  if  you  want  him." 

Susy's  face  fell.  She  had  counted  on  Tom's 
sympathy  in  the  matter  of  the  Carmichaels'  de 
fection,  and  now  something  seemed  to  be  looming 
up  vaguely  in  Martin's  future — something  that 
troubled  her,  but  for  which  she  found  no  name 
nor  remedy. 

"How  disgusting,  Bell!"  she  complained. 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Bell,  lingering  and  looking  at  her 
oddly. 

"Do  you  want  anything,  Bell?" 

"I  didn't,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  first-off,"  the  nurse 
began,  "but  since  Mr.  Wilbour's  not  going  to  be 
home  to  dinner,  I  might  as  well  get  it  over  first 
as  last,  I  suppose.  I  s'pose  it  '11  be  a  surprise  to 
you,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  but  I'm  thinking  of  making  a 
change." 

"Making  a  change?"  Susy  echoed  stupidly. 
"How,  Bell?" 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 


and 
tons 
and 


' '  Leaving, ' '  said  Bell 
briefly,  and  put  her 
apron  in  her  mouth. 

Susy  stared  sadly 
at  her. 

"Why,  Bell  — why, 
Bell,  what  is  it?"  she 
eried.  "Anything lean 
help?  Is  it  money?" 

"Goodness,  no,  Mrs. 
Wilbour,"  the  girl  as 
sured  her  warmly,  "of 
course  not  !  I  don't 
earn  my  money  as  it 
is.  That's  one  reason. 
You  see,  Mrs.  Wilbour, 
I'm  a  child's  nurse, 
when  you  come  down 
to  it,  really,  and  who 
is  there  for  me  to 
nurse  ?  Martin  I  don't 
see  from  morning  till 
night,  off  with  that 
Ursula  as  he  is,  and 
those  wild,  rough  boys, 
even  Thomas  can  do  all  his  back  but- 
now,  every  one.  His  father  insisted  on  it, 
I  taught  him,  but  it  was  like  slapping  me  in 
302 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

the  face.  I  passed  the  remark  to  Myron  Plummer 
at  the  time." 

"Why,  Bell!" 

"Yes'm.  And  then  when  you  went  in  and  out 
so  much,  there  was  packing  for  you  and  hustlin' 
you  off  and  hookin'  you  up,  and  your  clo'es  was 
more  dressy,  anyway.  But  now  it's  shirt-waists 
from  morning  to  night,  and  mostly  animals  to 
take  care  of,  and  I  never  was  no  vet'rinary  sur 
geon,  Mrs.  Wilhour,  I  tell  you  the  truth." 

"Why,  but,  Bell,"  Susy  rallied,  "if  it's  elab 
orate  dresses  you  want,  I  could  get  a  few,  you 
know!" 

"Oh  no,  Mrs.  Wilbour,"  Bell  replied  seriously, 
"you  needn't  to  bother — it  wouldn't  be  any  use. 
There's  another  reason,  too,  you  see:  I'm  think 
ing  of  getting  married." 

"Oh,  Bell,  really?  How  nice!"  Susy's  gener 
ous  pleasure  shone  in  her  face,  and  Bell  gulped 
responsively. 

"Then,  of  course,  you  don't  want  any  better 
reason  for  leaving,  Bell,  dear!  I'm  so  glad!  Why 
didn't  you  say  so  at  first  ?  Who  is  it  ?" 

Bell  coughed  and  lifted  a  dry  corner  of  her 
apron  to  her  mouth,  but  thought  better  of  it  and 
smoothed  her  garments  flat. 

"Well,"  she  said  tentatively,  as  if  prepared  to 
change  the  object  of  her  affection  in  case  he  should 

3°3 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

not  prove  generally  satisfactory,   "it  was  Myron 
Plummer,  Mrs.  Wilbour." 

Susy  stared  frankly  at  her. 

"Myron  Plummer?"  she  repeated.  "Myron? 
Why,  Bell,  how — how  very  interesting!" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Bell  quietly.  "He's  been  at  me 
a  long  time,  but  I  always  said  not  until  Thomas 
could  button  his  own  back,  I  shouldn't  feel  justi 
fied  in  leaving." 

Susy  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"Then  we  sha'n't  really  lose  you,  after  all,  Bell," 
she  began,  "and  Mr.  Wilbour  will  start  a  cottage 
near  the  garden  directly.  If  Myron  had  been 
married,  he  would  have  built  one  long  ago.  He 
wants  some  one  near  the  melons." 

"Yes'm,"  Bell  returned  uncomfortably,  "but 
that's  another  thing.  Myron  said  for  me  to  tell 
you — you  know  what  a  man  is!  He's  leaving, 
too." 

"Myron!" 

It  seemed  to  Susy  that  the  bottom  had  dropped 
out  of  existence ;  her  world  was  crumbling  around 
her. 

"Where  is  he  going?"  she  asked  shortly. 

"Well,  he  did  think  of  Australia,"  Bell  said 
tentatively,  with  the  implication  that  he  might 
make  it  China  or  the  North  Pole  if  that  should 
appeal  more  to  Susy. 

3°4 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of     A    BOY 

"With  Mr.  Carmichael?"  Susy  queried  sharply. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  you  mustn't  think  that 
there  was  any  urging,"  Bell  declared  earnestly. 
"You  know  that  wasn't  the  way  of  it.  Mr.  Car 
michael  mentioned  Australia  last  winter,  just  ac 
cidental  like,  in  talkin'  about  the  goat,  and  My 
ron's  been  wild  to  go  there  ever  since  he  was  a 
boy.  He's  been  beggin'  him  ever  since  then  to 
take  him  out  there,  if  he  went,  and  for  the  longest 
while  Mr.  Carmichael  just  laughed,  and  then  he 
said  he  couldn't  think  of  it,  'twould  look  as  if  he'd 
got  him  away  from  you,  and  he  wouldn't  do  that 
for  the  world  and  all,  and  I  said  the- same.  But 
then  Myron  said  he'd  pay  his  own  passage  and 
mine,  too,  and  go,  whether  or  no,  and  hunt  up 
Mr.  Carmichael  when  he  got  there.  And  of  course 
Mr.  Carmichael  couldn't  prevent  that,  Mrs.  Wil 
bour." 

"No,"  Susy  agreed  dully,  "no,  of  course  not. 
Why  does  Myron  think  he'll  like  Australia?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know  all  the  reasons,"  the 
nurse  answered  confidentially,  "but  he's  dread 
ful  anxious  to  see  those  kangaroos  that  are  out 
there,  and — 

"How  utterly  absurd!" 

"Yes'm.  But  he  is.  They  were  in  some  geog 
raphy  he  used  to  study,  when  he  was  a  boy,  and 
you  know  what  a  man  is,"  Bell  repeated  resigned- 

3°5 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

ly.  "And  then  he's  always  wanted  sheep  to 
handle,  he  says.  He  was  dreadful  disappointed 
that  time  you  decided  not  to  have  the  sheep — 

"It  was  Mr.  Carmichael  that  persuaded  us 
against  them,"  Susy  interrupted  coldly. 

"Yes'm.  But  that  wasn't  any  of  Myron's  busi 
ness,  of  course.  Mr.  Carmichael  knows  all  about 
Myron,  and  he'd  be  his  head  man  and  sort  of  look 
out  for  his  interest,  he  says,  if  he  went  in  with 
Mrs.  Brundage's  brother.  And  Myron  says  that 
would  suit  him  down  to  the  ground." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"But  you  mustn't  think,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  that 
we'd  leave  you  in  a  bad  fix,"  Bell  began  again. 
"Myron  says  he  wouldn't  of  left  you  before,  when 
you  were  more  helpless,  like,  but  now  you  don't 
need  him,  really,  he  says;  you  can  run  the  place 
yourself.  And  Harvey's  all  broke  in  to  take 
Myron's  place,  and  Harvey  has  a  cousin  up-State 
that  would  love  to  come  and  do  the  stable-work. 
It's  very  different  now  from  what  it  was  last  year." 

"Yes,"  Susy  agreed  drearily,  "it  certainly  is. 
You  mustn't  think  I'm  nasty  about  it,  Bell — I 
hope  you  and  Myron  will  be  very  happy.  Of 
course,  you  know  we'll  miss  you  terribly — terri 
bly.  Why,  just  think,  Bell,  you've  been  with 
me  ten  years!" 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  uncer- 
306 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 


tainly,  then  with  a  common  impulse  fell  into  each 
other's  arms  and  cried  refreshingly,  and  in  the 
real  sorrow  of  losing  this  faithful  friend  all  Susy's 
bitterness  at  the  manner  of  the  loss  was  washed 
away,  together,  somehow,  with  her  growing  load 
of  the  day's  discomforts.  In  a  generous  glow  of 
enthusiasm  for  Bell's  trousseau  and  emigrating 
outfit,  for  which  she  promptly  announced  herself 
responsible,  the  last  bits  of  the  morning  passed, 
and  she  ate  the  dainty  luncheon  served  with  re 
morseful  care  by  the  nurse  with  a  curious  sense 
of  chastened  growth  in  spirit,  a  feeling  of  enlarged 
experience  that  made  this  morning  seem  a  long, 
long  stretch  of  time. 

She  found  herself  very  tired  after  luncheon, 
and  her  hour  of  rest,  snatched  by  Tom's  stringent 
orders,  at  this  point,  turned  into  three  of  solid, 
dreamless  sleep,  at  first,  broken  finally  by  strange 
reminiscent  visions. 

The  years  rolled  back  in  these  mysterious  min- 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

utes  that  can  hold  so  much,  and  she  seemed  to 
be  at  once  herself,  with  all  their  accumulated  ex 
perience  and  the  self  of  six  years  ago.  She  and 
Tom,  Aunt  Emma  and  Martin,  relived  their  funny 
family  life  of  Binks's  babyhood;  she  listened,  half 
weary,  half  amused,  to  his  interminable  stories, 
once  he  had  found  his  slow-moving  tongue;  she 
argued  with  Bell  over  the  propriety  of  Aunt 
Emma's  psychological  experiments  with  the  quaint 
little  creature  who  had  been  hardly  more  than  an 
animate  doll  to  her  then,  it  seemed,  in  the  light 
of  her  present  responsibilities;  she  and  he  and 
Tom  hung  over  the  squirrels  in  the  park,  or 
wrestled  spiritually  with  schemes  of  infantile  pun 
ishment.  Even  further  back  the  misty  curtain 
rolled,  and  in  puzzled  half-memory  that  confused 
his  dramatic  babyhood  with  Thomas's  uneventful 
past,  she  listened  awe-struck  to  his  first,  his  very 
first  extraordinary  ejaculations,  heard  the  nurse's 
anguished  gasp  as  he  slipped  beneath  the  soapy 
wavelets  of  *  his  rubber  bath-tub  under  Aunt 
Emma's  unpractised  handling,  blushed  hot  again 
at  Bell's  reproof  as  she  and  Tom,  singing  mock- 
heroic  duets  above  his  cradle,  had  moved  him  to 
sudden  roars  of  terror.  Who  was  she — that  Susy, 
or  this  ?  She  had  been  so  impractical  then,  so 
light-minded,  they  all  said,  and  now,  who  was  it 
that  had  just  scolded  her  for  her  tiresome  thrift 

308 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

and  a  dogmatic  round  of  duties  held  up  for  a  test 
to  everybody  else?  Who  had  blamed  her  about 
her  baby,  Binks  ?  Who  wanted  to  take  her  baby 
to  Australia?  Babies  never  left  their  mothers, 
surely ! 

A  discreet  but  ceaseless  knocking  at  the  door 
of  her  room  mingled  with  her  dream,  and,  lo!  it 
was  at  once  the  throb  of  the  screw  that  drove  the 
steamer  to  Australia,  with  tiny  Binks  in  a  gray 
squirrel-cap  stretching  out  his  arms  to  her  at 
the  broad  stern,  and  the  tap  of  Aunt  Emma's 
foot  against  her  sofa,  as  that  good  woman  in 
formed  her  niece's  mind  from  dull  histories  and 
literary  classics,  in  those  last  waiting  days  before 
ever  Binks  wras,  and  she  lay  wondering  what  it 
would  be  like  to  be  his  mother.  .  .  . 

She  struggled  awake. 

"Come  in!  What  is  it?  Why,  it's  dark!"  she 
murmured,  and  Bell  entered,  softly,  but  more 
quickly  than  usual,  and  breathless,  even  for  her. 

"Oh,  Mrs  Wilbour!  Mrs.  Wilbour!"  she  whis 
pered  hissmgly,  "are  you  awake?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Susy  muttered  drowsily,  only  half 
conscious  as  yet,  and  dimly  confusing  the  warm 
blanket  under  her  chin  with  Binks's  downy,  warm 
baby  head,  so  that  a  wave  of  tenderness  for  him 
swept  over  her  and  she  sat  up  suddenly. 

"Where's  Martin,  Bell?"  she  asked,  wide  awake 
3°9 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

now  and  eager  for  him,  as  she  had  not  felt  for 
many  months.  "Tell  him  to  run  in  and  see  me, 
if  he's  here,  will  you?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Wilbour,  that's  what  I  came  for— 
Martin's  eloped!" 

Susy  stiffened  on  her  bed. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"He's  eloped,  Mrs.  Wilbour.     Isn't  it  awful?" 

Susy  slipped  off  the  bed  and  threw  apart  all 
the  curtains,  letting  in  what  late  afternoon  light 
there  was. 

"Are  you  crazy,  Bell?  Do  you  mean  he's  run 
away?  How  do  you  know?" 

"I  mean  eloped,"  Bell  persisted.  "They  left  a 
letter.  Mr.  Carmichael  brought  it,  and  he's  wait 
ing  to  say  he'll  beat  through  the  woods,  and  will 
you  send  the  horses  different  ways  to  catch  them, 
because  they  had  money,  he  thinks,  and  maybe 
they  took  a  train." 

"They — they?"  Susy  queried,  hastily  slipping 
on  her  clothes  and  twisting  up  her  hair  with  one 
hand  while  she  tried  to  smooth  out  a  crumpled 
piece  of  paper  with  the  other.  "Who  are  the 
other  boys?"  with  a  confused  recollection  of  lads 
enticed  by  the  glories  of  cheap  detective  stories 
and  tales  of  Indian  adventure. 

"You  don't  elope  with  'other  boys,'"  Bell  in 
formed  her  impatiently.  "Don't  you  know  what 

310 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF   A    BOY 

elope  is  ?  Him  and  that  nasty  little  Ursula  are 
off  together,  and  goodness  knows  if  we'll  see  them 
again  forever.  She's  cunning  as  a  fox,  Myron 
says." 

Susy  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"Oh,  Bell,  how  childish  you  are!  Infants  of 
that  age  can't  elope'  How — how  idiotic!  Pick 
up  that  collar-stud,  please." 

''You'll  rind  Martin  can,"  Bell  insisted.  "If 
he  says  they've  eloped,  they  have,  and  that's  why 
he  mended  the  dress-suit  case.  His  white  duck 
suit  is  gone,  and  Mr.  Wilbour's  other  razor,  and 
that  smelly  shaving-soap  Ursula  used  to  poke 
her  fingers  into,  and  Thomas's  harmonicum,  and 
she's  took  her  mother's  best  lace  nightgown,  the 
Carmichaels's  Katey  says — she  was  givii.g  'em  a 
long  sermon  in  the  kitchen  a  day  or  two  back 
about  the  lovely  underclothes  her  mother  took 
when  she  ran  away  with  her  father — you  know 
the  Carmichaels  ran  away  to  be  married." 

Susy's  head  swam. 

"Oh,  Bell,  do  stop  talking,  please!  How  can  I 
think?  Ought  I  to  telegraph  Mr.  Wilbour?" 

"Mr.  Carmichael  says  no,  ma'am,  not  to.  Not 
till  night,  anyhow — he  thinks  he  can  trace  'em 
out — he's  about  sure  they  didn't  go  on  any  train, 
because  his  livery-boy  meets  every  one,  and  he 
knows  'em  well.  And  that's  all  he's  worried 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

about.  And  if  by  any  chance  they  did,  he  says 
Mr.  Wilbour  can  hunt  'em  up  better  right  in 
New  York." 

Her  first  real  alarm  caught  Susy.  She  read  the 
crumpled  note  in  Ursula's  round,  childish  hand, 
half  comprehendingly. 

"DEAR  DADDY  AND  MOTHER,  Martin  and  me 
are  elopping.  I  took  a  lace  nightgown  just  like  you 
and  daddy.  Martin  brok  the  bank.  I  know  daddy 
and  you  are  going  somewhare  and  Martins  parronts 
will  not  go  ther.  So  we  are  elopping.  When  the 
baby  conies  and  looks  like  you  you  will  forgiv  us 
like  gramma  Carmichael  did  you  and  daddy.  If  I 
do  not  see  you  before  then  I  will  say  goodby  and  I 
am  your  loving  little  daghtur  Ursula  Humphreys 
Carmichael,  but  my  name  is  Wilbour  now  of  coarse." 

Susy  burst  into  hysterical  laughter  and  ran 
down  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  let  me  go  with  you — send  Myron  through 
the  woods!"  she  begged  of  the  pursuing  parent 
before  her,  who  sat,  half  alarmed,  half  ashamed, 
in  a  two-wheeled  dog-cart  before  the  door. 

In  a  Hash  the  same  picture  came  to  both  of 
them  :  the  long,  dark  hours  up  and  down  the 
country  roads  till  moonrise,  following  the  lan 
tern's  glimmer;  the  hope  that  took  moving  shad- 

312 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OP   A    BOY 

ows  for  realities;  the  sickening  disappointments; 
the  few  pedestrians  to  question;  the  haunting, 
careless,  omnipresent  motor-cars ;  the  horrid  black 
pond  at  the  end  of  the  vista,  that  frames  every 
father's  and  mother's  vision  of  their  runaways. 

"All  right — jump  in!"  he  said  briefly.  "Some 
how  I  have  a  feeling  for  the  Old  North  Road- 
have  you?" 

"I  haven't  any  at  all,"  poor  Susy  confessed. 
"I  never  did  seem  to  have  those  kind  of  feelings!" 

They  drove  on  at  a  slow  trot  along  the  echoing 
road;  little  red  lights  began  to  peep  out  in  the 
scattered  houses;  evening  had  drawn  in.  The 
frogs  set  up  a  strident,  chilly  pipe;  it  seemed  to 
Susy  that  she  could  never  again  hear  their  morbid 
cry  without  a  sinking  sense  of  fear  sternly  sup 
pressed. 

"I'll  give  'em  five  miles — six,  seven,  each  di 
rection,"  Mr.  Carmichael  said  abruptly.  "They're 
good  walkers,  but  that  suit-case  would  hold  'em 
back,  and  they  had  a  big  lunch-basket  besides." 

They  drove  on  for  nearly  an  hour,  peering  from 
side  to  side,  inquiring  here  and  there  at  a  farm 
house.  In  that  silent  hour  Susy  thought  of  many 
things,  and  not  by  any  means  of  the  children 
only.  Many  matters  in  her  life  slipped  into  a 
different  aspect;  many  duties  took  on  different 
proportions.  There  appeared  to  have  been  placed 

313 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

a  period,  incomprehensibly,  perhaps,  but  definite 
ly,  to  a  certain  chapter  of  her  life,  and  she  felt 
a  vague  sense  of  change — wrenching,  but  not 
wholly  unpleasant. 

It  was  hardly  a  surprise  to  her  when  on  their 
hailing  a  man  in  a  covered  cart  looming  up  in  the 
darkness  with, 

"Hello!  have  you  seen  a  boy  and  girl  with  a 
suit-case?"  an  oddly  familiar  voice  replied  heart- 
ily: 

"You  bet  I  hev!  It  takes  you,  Mr.  Carmichael, 
to  track  things  out !  I  was  puttin'  along  's  fast  's  I 
could  to  tell  yer!" 

"Why,  it's  Eph!"  Mr.  Carmichael  exclaimed, 
and  the  good-natured  vegetable  man  roared  a 
jovial  assent. 

"They're  all  right,  the  young  ones  are,"  he  as 
sured  them  again.  "Go  right  along  the  way 
you're  goin'  and  stop  off  at  that  old  barn  your 
father  bought  at  the  Miller  auction — 'member? 
Just  take  a  peek  in  the  door  an'  see  wrhat  ye  see! 
That  bull  pup  o'  yours  is  settin'  there,  an'  I  guess 
he  means  business,  all  right.  I  wa'n't  afraid 
ter  leave  'em.  I  guess  you'll  be  some  relieved, 
though,  Mis'  Wilbour.  But,  shucks!  you  can't 
lose  a  Carmichael!" 

He  clattered  by  them,  and  the  dog-cart  raced 
along  the  road  and  drew  up  before  the  deserted, 

3J4 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

ramshackle  barn.     Mr.  Carmichael  detached  the 
lantern  in  silence,  and  they  peered  in  excitedly. 

Full  in  the  rays  of  the  round  tin  reflector  lay 
the  most  remarkable  group  that  can  ever  have 
gratified  the  resentfully  loving  eyes  of  fond  though 
deterring  parents. 

Martin  and  Ursula  lay  side  by  side  on  a  piled 
couch  of  thin  hay;  their  heads  all  but  touched, 
and  rested  on  the  reclaimed  dress-suit  case  with 
a  curious  Japanese  effect.  Ursula  was  lost,  save 
for  her  mussed  blue  hair-ribbon,  in  billows  and 
folds  of  an  elaborate  lace  nightgown;  one  grimy 
hand  protruded  from  a  rose-knotted  ruffle,  one 
dusty  russet  shoe  escaped  the  delicate  hem.  Laid 
neatly  out  beside  her  sleeping  lord  were  a  razor, 
a  large  porcelain  jar  of  shaving-soap,  and  a  nickel 
harmonicum.  At  their  feet,  in  the  relative  posi 
tion  of  the  carved  hound  on  a  stone  Crusader's 
bier,  sat  a  brindled  bulldog,  watching  a  half-eaten 
chocolate-cake. 

The  father  and  mother  looked  at  each  other  and 
burst  into  irrepressible  laughter.  The  lovers  woke, 
stared,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  grinned  sheepishly. 

"How'd  you  know  where  we  were?"  Martin 
demanded  curiously,  while  Ursula  fingered  the 
ruffles  of  her  nightgown  with  conscious  pride  in 
her  suitable  appearance. 

A  revulsion  of  feeling  caught  Susy, 
3*5 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OF    A    BOY 

"Martin  Wilbour,"  she  said  severely,  "before 
we  leave  this  barn  you  must  give  me  your  solemn 
promise  never  to  do  this  again.  Will  you?" 

Mr.  Carmichael  was  gathering  up  impedimenta 
in  a  practical  way  and  rescuing  his  daughter  from 
her  draperies. 

Martin  drew  his  toe  stubbily  along  the  dusty 
floor. 

"N — no,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  won't — for  I  might. 
I  think  I'd  better  not." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  frank  dismay;  it 
was  a  dangerous  deadlock,  and  both  knew  it. 
Mr.  Carmichael  whistled  softly  and  led  the  un 
resisting  Ursula  to  the  dog-cart;  the  bulldog  fol 
lowed  them.  Susy  and  her  son  confronted  each 
other  in  silence,  and  neither  seemed  able  to  move 
or  speak,  even  when  a  second  wagon  dashed  up 
to  the  barn  and  a  man  sprang  out  and  rushed 
toward  them.  The  moon  swam  up  from  a  cloud 
and  poured  through  the  door,  and  Susy  fell  upon 
the  man. 

"Tom!  Tom!"  she  cried  joyfully,  and  then: 
"Oh,  Tom,  you  must  manage  him — he  won't 
mind  me  any  more!" 

She  could  not  have  told  how  they  got  into  the 
old  phaeton,  nor  when  the  others  left  them  be 
hind.  But  her  head  was  on  Tom's  shoulder  and 

316 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

Martin's  on  her  knee,  and  they  were  talking  in 
low  tones  over  his  sleeping  weight. 

" — and  first  Edith  scolded  me  for  neglecting 
you  and  being  generally  nasty,  and  then  Mat 
said  they  were  going,  and  I  forgot  about  Edith. 
And  then  Bell  and  Myron  came,  and  I  forgot  the 
Carmichaels.  And  then  Martin  and  Ursula,  and  I 
forgot  Bell.  But  they  were  all  true,  Tom,  and  oh, 
Tom,  am  I  sacrificing  everybody?  Am  I  horrid?" 

"My  dearest  girl!"  He  kissed  her  very  gently 
in  the  moonlight,  and  patted  her  hair  comfort 
ingly.  "We're  getting  a  little  stale,  Toots  dar 
ling,  to  tell  the  truth,  both  of  us,"  he  said  slowly. 
"I've  felt  so  for  some  time.  Old  Hart  well  told  me 
as  much  to-day.  He  wants  me  to  take  July  and 
August  off.  Not  working  on  the  place,  he  says,  but 
off.  You  know  I  only  took  two  weeks  last  year. 
But  I  didn't  know  how  you'd  feel  about  it  .... 

"And,  dear,  I  may  as  well  tell  you — I've  done 
a  rather  high-handed  thing  about  Binks,  but 
there  was  no  time  to  consult  you,  and — and  any 
way,  I  want  you  to  think  it's  best.  The  board 
meeting  was  only  half  an  hour,  after  all,  and 
that's  why  I  got  out  so  early.  Elliot  was  there- 
one  of  my  classmates,  and  we  got  talking  about 
our  boys — his  youngest  is  just  Binkie's  age.  He 
sends  him  every  summer  to  a  vacation  camp  for 
little  fellows  run  by  one  of  his  young  teachers— 

319 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    OT    A    BOY 

they  hunt  and  fish  and  drill  and  get  a  lot  of  dis 
cipline  generally.  He  won't  take  but  fifteen— 
this  young  Westcott — and  he  has  fourteen  booked 
now;  I  didn't  dare  wait,  for  it  struck  me  it  was 
the  very  thing  for  the  boy.  Elliot  says  he's  won 
derful  with  them.  And  I  always  meant  to  send 
Binks  to  Elliot,  some  day.  It's  the  best  school  I 
know;  he's  a  fine  man — one  of  the  best  men  the 
college  ever  sent  out. — Would  you  object?" 

"No,  Tom,"  she  answered  simply,  "I  think  it 
might  be  a  very  good  thing." 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"That's  good,"  he  said.  " By-the-way,  Ballan- 
tyne's  boy,  that  went  to  Mrs.  Trayner's,  has  gone 
for  two  years.  He  starts  in  with  Elliot  this  fall." 

"Why  not  let  Martin  do  that,  too?"  she  sug 
gested  quietly. 

"Would  you  think  of  it,  dear?  I  should  like 
it  of  all  things,  but  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't. 
You  see,  I  trust  Elliot  perfectly,  and  the  vacations 
are  long.  And  he's  developing  very  fast,  dear." 

"Yes,  I  know.  And,  Tom,  I  was  thinking  .  .  . 
would  you  like  it  if  I  asked  Aunt  Emma  to  come 
for  July  and  August  and  look  after  Thomas  and 
the  place — and  you  and  I  go  away  together?" 

"Would  I  like  it!  Tootie,  would  you — would 
you?" 

"Of  course  we  could  go  abroad,  but  I  thought 
320 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of    A    BOY 

it  might  be  nice  to  go  to  Maine  again — do  you  re 
member  what  good  times  we  had  at  Wishemun- 
keewa?" 

"Toots,  you  are  certainly  the  sweetest  .   .  ." 

"And  I  could  get  some  new  clothes,  and  Aunt 
Em  won't  spend  half  on  the  place  we'd  be  tempted 
to,  you  know.  She'd  love  to  come — perfectly  love 
to,  and  she  gets  on  beautifully  with  Thomas.  Do 
you  remember,  Tommy,  how  Martin  jumped  on 
your  fishing-rod  at  Wishemunkeewa  and  broke  it, 
and  you  went  out  to  spank  him,  and  he  told  you 
you  couldn't  spank  with  a  curved  stick?" 

Tom  chuckled  softly. 

"I'll  never  forget  that." 

Martin  did  not  move  his  head  from  her  knee,  but 
his  voice  broke  startlingly  clear  in  the  still  night. 

"I  woke  up,"  he  said.  "If  I  can  go  to  Mr. 
Westcott's  Indian  camp,  I'll  promise  never  to 
elope  again- — never.  I  know  all  about  it.  Craig 
Ballantyne  told  me.  You  have  to  have  a  flannel 
sleeping-bag  and  a  bar  of  soap  and  six  t  wels 
each.  They  wear  moccasins.  If  you  don't  tell 
the  truth,  he  fires  you." 

"I  don't  think  he'll  fire  you,  Binks,"  Tom  said 
affectionately. 

"No.  But  there's  one  thing  you'd  better  learn 
right  away — don't  say  Binks  any  more,  please, 
father." 

321 


THE    BIOGRAPHY    Of   A    BOY 

"We  usually  say  Martin,  dear,  don't  we?"  Susy 
reminded  him  softly. 

"You  mustn't  say  that,  either."  He  raised 
his  head. 

"Then,  what?"  they  asked  in  bewilderment. 

He  sat  up  proudly. 

"You  must  call  me  'Wilbour'  now,"  he  said; 
"that's  what  they'll  say  at  Elliot's  —  'young 
Wilbour!'" 

They  stared  at  each  other. 

"Tommy,"  she  whispered,  in  a  hush,  "is  it  really 
true?  Is  everything  changed  as  much  as  that  ?" 

"Nonsense,"  he  said  gayly,  "nonsense,  sweet 
heart!  It's  only  Binks  that's  grown  up — we're 
just  the  same." 

And  again  they  kissed  each  other  in  the  yellow 
moonlight. 


A     000  029  835     6 


